Judgment Day
by Amorai
Summary: All Erik wanted that final night was to flee from the truth and from his memories, but the police would not have any of that...and when the angel faces judgment, who will save the angel?
1. Chained Heart and Hands

**Author's blurb: This is a WIP, keep checking back for updates! This story is a little out of character in Erik's case; I think many people would agree with me when I say that he would have been suave enough to escape successfully. Anyway, I just wanted to see what would happened if he hadn't. Come and join me on my journey and his…**

Chapter One: Chained Heart and Hands

Glass exploded in all directions as the candlestick made contact with the mirror. He felt little nipping stings as shards embedded themselves in his hands, but he did not feel the pain as they began to bleed. The pain of his heart outweighed and outlasted them all, and it was all he could feel, the agony dragging him down…

He did not, could not think as the final mirror shattered into glass and ashes, revealing the cramped passageway he had built years ago in his youth. He had used it only once or twice, long enough ago that he had forgotten where exactly it led to. But he dropped the candlestick and stepped into the narrow corridor without hesitation, releasing the heavy curtain and shrouding himself in darkness. His mind screamed for flight…not from the soldiers and the angry mob, but from his own heart, his own memories…

Christine.

He forced her image away and concentrated on walking straight. He had forgotten much about this particular passageway among the dozens he had constructed and roamed as the Opera Ghost, but he knew that this one was fairly straight and had no turns. The fingertips of his hands skimmed across the rough rock as he continued on his way, staring straight ahead, seeking the light at the end of the tunnel that refused to reveal itself to him.

Every time Christine's face appeared in his mind, he brutally expelled it. He did not want to relive what he had just experienced, what he had just done. He only wanted to run, to flee…and deal with the memories later.

_Exist. Keep breathing. Keep living. Do not fall again._

He had fallen twice, once at birth and again only ten minutes ago. He dared not fall again. He was sure there was a rock bottom, a place where if he touched, he could not ever return to the light.

_Exist. Do not feel. Do not break. Do not fall. Ever. _

His knee made contact with something and he almost hit his head against the door blocking his way. Mindlessly, automatically, he drew to a stop, his fingers searching the wooden slab blindly, feeling for a handle, a knob, anything…

His fingertips brushed against something cold and hard, and in an instant he turned the knob, opening the door a crack.

An anonymous bricked wall greeted him. Screams, exclamations and the sound of running feet came from his left, and he remembered. This passageway came out into a system of small alleyways that wrapped around the opera house. Although he had lived in the opera house for years, he had never fully explored the network of labyrinthine alleys around it.

To his left, the alley connected with the main street running in front of the Opera Populaire. To his right lay the unknown. Awareness of the outside world and his lack of a mask made him stop dead, but he pushed down his fear and stepped out into the dark alley, closing the door firmly. He had come as close as anybody could possibly come to total destruction. He did not fear anything anymore.

Or so he told himself.

He allowed himself a glance at the large crowd gathered in front of the burning opera house, their faces illuminated by the great fire. Interspersed within the crowd were smaller pockets of struggling people, performers in full costume and operagoers alike as they fought their way through the masses to escape the burning building. His eyes did not miss the soldiers donned in dark uniforms as they made their way through the throng, trying to sedate the Parisians as they screamed at the loss of their beloved opera house and tried to find their friends in the chaos. Although the soldiers were preoccupied with keeping the large group under control, Erik knew that they also had their orders to capture him at all costs.

There were soldiers hunting him down in the opera house behind him. There were soldiers lingering in the crowd to the left of him. There was only one way to go.

Turning right, he turned his back on the mob, making his way deeper into the alley as fast as he could go without running. The high walls swallowed up the cries and calls of the crowd and he soon found himself surrounded by silence and darkness.

He turned right and continued, his feet the only sound in the gloom. He had no plan, no ideas, but one thing he did know was that he did not want to reach the light and open air. He only desired to wander alone forever in the darkness, breaking the overwhelming quiet with his silent screams…

He turned left and then right, only wanting to flee, refusing to think, the caverns of his mind as empty as the dim alley he was now running down…

A dark shape flashed by him and he immediately sped up, but before he could run another step, a pair of hands pinned his arms back, forcing him to a stop.

"Just where do you think you're going, monsieur? On your daily evening run down in the alleys behind the Opera Populaire…as it burns to the ground?" A voice asked.

Erik bit back his yell and struggled furiously, but his strength was no match for the faceless man, revealed to be a brawny soldier as he stepped around Erik to see him more fully.

"Let me go. I'll kill you!" Erik snarled, fighting his grip.

"I'm sorry, but I cannot do that, and I doubt that you can give me so much as a nosebleed in your situation," the soldier said in an almost bored voice, taking Erik's wrists around to his front where he held on to them in a death grip, ignoring Erik's valiant attempts to break free. "We were given orders to arrest any man we see in the vicinity of the opera house that fits your description and bears your appearance. You wouldn't happen to be the infamous Opera Ghost, would you? There is one last thing to check, and I must confess that I am quite curious and excited…word of your horrifying disfigurement has traveled very quickly through us soldiers…"

"No," Erik pleaded, struggling again to no avail.

The soldier ignored him. Easily restraining Erik's wrists with one hand, he reached behind his head, grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled downward, exposing his naked face to the narrow strip of sky above them, stained dark red from the smoke of the opera house as it burned.

"Ahh," another voice breathed in ecstatic satisfaction. Erik looked wildly around and out of the corner of his eyes, saw another soldier stepping out from the shadows. "Only one man in Paris is enough of a monster to have a face like that."

The soldier laughed and spat spitefully on Erik's face as he slipped a hand inside his winter cape and drew out a pair of handcuffs, carelessly tossing them to the soldier pinning Erik's wrists together.

"You, _monsieur_," he said, mockingly emphasizing the title of respect as the first soldier easily forced Erik's resisting wrists into the twin circles of imprisonment, "are under arrest for arson of public property, attempted murder and three counts of homicide…if not more."

The soldier's spit scorched Erik's face as it slid down his marred cheek. He would not be shackled, he would not be imprisoned again and be tortured for others' gratification and appeasement…

"Those can all be explained, I can plead guilty if that is what you want," Erik replied through gritted teeth, allowing some of his pride to crumble.

"But who will defend you? Who will save you? Certainly not the lass or the Vicomte, they're gone," the first soldier sneered. "Who will believe a filthy monster like you when you stand before the faces of the unmerciful Parisian court? Your very bones will rot in hell and not even the prison dogs will care to dispose of you in their own way…"

"NOOOOO!" Erik yelled, throwing a punch at the soldier's jaw with his cuffed hands. But before he could make his escape, he felt something hit his head. The last thing he registered before becoming unconscious was Christine's face and once again, the horrifying sensation of falling.

* * *

**Please leave a review and tell me what you think! [D-squaredShipper]**


	2. Enlightenment

Chapter Two: Enlightenment

Christine felt stifled as she stared out the window of the de Chagny country manor, her wedding ring digging into her ring finger with every clench and unclench of her hands. Although Raoul had not broached the topic of her humble origins and her changed status as Vicomtess de Chagny, she was not a simpleton. She had highly doubted that Raoul's peers would easily accept her as an aristocrat, and she had been right. A week had passed since the wedding, and the one encounter she had had was far from comforting.

"So, madamoiselle," the Vicomte Fournier said at the large dinner party Christine and Raoul were attending. Christine knew instinctively that he was using the title to perpetually keep her at a distance from the true aristocracy. "Where do you hail from? Paris herself? Cherbourg? Bordeaux?"

Christine swallowed, knowing she could not lie. "From a small town in Sweden."

The Vicomtess Morel's eyebrows shot upwards. "Sweden?" she shot at her. Christine caught the cold edge in her voice. "And what were your parents' occupations?"

The roast quail Christine was eating became lodged in her throat. She could choose not to answer, but that would be an admission of guilt in her fellow aristocrats' eyes. Making up answers would be useless; she was not a good liar. But if she answered truthfully, perhaps she could twist the odds in her favor.

"My mother was a dancer, and my father a violinist. They were very well known in Sweden, the most accomplished of their kind, many people said," she replied, allowing a faint note of pride to show in her voice.

"Indeed," the Vicomtess Fournier replied in the same tone as her husband, staring at Christine as if she could see the blood of a lowly second-class artist running through her veins. She turned to the Morels. "And how about you, Laetitia, Antoine? How does your ancestry fare?"

"High-born aristocrats all the way. Our combined family tree dates back to the 1500's," the Vicomte Morel said with relish.

"To the 1400's, actually. Four hundred years of pureblood aristocrats," the Vicomtess Morel corrected him, looking across the table at Christine with a small smirk on her face.

"Ah, I believe we are quite similar, our families," the Vicomte Fournier said. "Hundreds of years of Fourniers, all distinguished aristocrats."

All four of them looked condescendingly at Christine, who could only smile meekly and spear her fork with another bite of quail.

That had ended the conversation between them. Over dessert, Christine had feigned tiredness, asking to go home. She and Raoul had excused themselves from the dinner party much earlier than was generally acceptable, Christine trying to ignore the expressions of vicious triumph on the faces of her peers as she stepped out into the evening air.

Raoul did not know of his peers' treatment of Christine, having conversed merrily with other aristocrats the entire time, and Christine did not have the heart to tell him. She loved Raoul tremendously, but sometimes she wondered if marrying him was worth the never-ending mutters of disapproval and scorn for having come from a poor family unknown outside of Sweden.

Thick clouds covered the sun, reflecting her mood to the letter. Under the gilded ceiling of her bedroom and surrounded by richly-colored paintings, she felt like she was suffocating in all the signs of her newfound status. So much glamour, demanding reverence from the inferior commoners…she had no use for any of that. She wanted to be the person she once was, wandering under open skies, mingling with friends and neighbors…

_So do it. What's stopping you?_

Her mind was made up in an instant. Christine turned on her heel and left the room, making her way to Raoul's magnificent study down the hall. She knocked on the open door, lingering in the corridor.

Her husband emerged from his correspondence to look at her. "Ah, my sweet Little Lotte, come in," he said, smiling warmly at her.

Christine smiled back swiftly and stepped over the threshold onto the rich carpet of Raoul's cozy study.

"Little Lotte, you never see me in my study unless it's something important," he said, getting up and walking around his carved desk to draw her into his arms. "What is it, Christine?"

"I am going out for a ride. Alone, if that is possible," she said.

"Very well, I can summon the footmen to escort you in a moment."

"No, Raoul," she replied as firmly as possible. "I'd like to go completely alone, with no escorts."

"Completely alone?" Raoul exclaimed in a shocked voice, letting go of her. "No, Christine, I will not have that. You know it is not safe for a woman to go out by herself."

"No harm will come to me," Christine said, trying to coax him into acceptance. "I learned many things in the Opera Populaire, I am not entirely defenseless."

"I will not let you go off by yourself. I won't lose you," he said emphatically.

She knew that Raoul was referring to more than mere thieves and kidnappers. Vivid memories of the Phantom of the Opera haunted them both.

"Erik is gone, you know that. The police did not find anybody in the cellars. He has disappeared, and if he is the Erik I know, he has disappeared for good. He knows defeat when he sees it," Christine said. The last statement was a stretch, but all she wanted was to get out of the manor.

Raoul did not reply.

"Raoul, it is a dream to be waited on hand and foot, but I am not a child anymore. Please grant me this one wish. I will not take long and I promise you I shall return," Christine said steadily.

He looked at her for a very long time without answering. She kept her chin up and her eyes earnest, allowing him to see her honesty and a hint of her feminine stubbornness.

"All right," he finally said.

A spark of relief fluttered through Christine's blood. "Thank you," she said, pecking him on the cheek. "I will return to you safe and sound."

"If you don't, I'll have the police hunt you down in a heartbeat," he called after her as she turned around and headed towards the open door.

She laughed lightheartedly as she left the study, suddenly feeling like she could fly. Running back to her room, she knelt down and opened the small wooden chest by her bed where she kept a small stash of clothes from her days in the opera house. Changing out of her stately gown into a plain dress, she covered her hair with a thin scarf to obscure her from recognition in the streets. She switched her tailored shoes for soft slippers, enjoying the newfound freedom found in her more modest attire. Swinging around to face the full-length mirror, she smiled at her new appearance. This was the Christine she knew, the Christine that had grown up in Sweden with her dear father, lived in the Opera Populaire, fallen in love with—

_She approached the mirror, pulled closer to the mysterious being just beyond, surrounded by swirling mist. His hand stretched out to her, promising a new world of music, passion, danger and velvet seduction…_

_She stepped closer, barely noticing the soft grating of the mirror as it slid back, only seeing her Angel of Music in all his glory and wanting to drown in his face, his touch, his music, everything he had to offer her…  
_  
She stumbled back, staring at the mirror, which now only offered her the image of a frightened Christine, gasping for breath at the shock and the memories. But when she closed her eyes, the image of Erik flashed again behind her eyelids.

"Erik is gone," she murmured frantically, hoping that the spoken words would fully cement the truth into her deluded mind. "Erik is gone."

Unable to look at the mirror, she half-fled her bedroom, her breathing rapid and shallow.

The earthy scent of the horses gently meandered into her brain as she entered the stable and allowed her to calm down. Running a hand through her hair, she whistled once. Chaser, a dark brown beauty of a mare and her favorite horse, trotted over to her. She reached behind her for her saddle and readied Chaser for their ride. Swinging up onto her back in a single movement, she nudged Chaser and she happily cantered out the stable doors onto the well-worn paths branching out from the de Chagny manor.

Clouds continued to roll over the sky as Christine sped Chaser up to a full gallop, heading for the small village some distance away from the manor. She had to get away from all this: the overly extravagant wardrobe, the opulent gatherings, the lack of acceptance…as far away as possible. She was going back to her roots.

She rode and rode, not caring to keep track of the dizzying emotions running through her mind as she sped through stretches of forest and open fields. Drifting through blissful nothingness…numb. If only she could stay in this state forever…Only when she drew up to the outskirts of the village was she able to remember everything that she was and what she was doing.

Tying Chaser to a tree, she headed towards the marketplace, the centerpiece of the village. She had known of its existence from long ago, but had never ventured inside it. Now, she was about to make her grand entrance—as a disguised aristocrat.

Despite its small size, the marketplace did not lack for constant business and flowing money. Drawing her scarf tighter around her, Christine made her way past scores of people, almost losing herself in the crowd. Vendors called out the virtues of their wares, each competing to see who could best advertise their things, as impatient women pushed through people to get to their desired stands and excited children pulled their mothers through the throng, calling out for candy and toys.

Caught up in the cacophony of voices, the very beginnings of lightheadedness began to manifest themselves in Christine's mind. She took a steadying breath and continued on, taking in the bustling sights and occasionally opening her reticule to deposit several francs into the hands of the beggars scattered around the marketplace humbly pleading for money.

A dull ache started pounding slowly in Christine's head. A mere ten minutes and the noise of the crowd was already giving her a headache…she shook her head, smiling at the unreasonableness of her own body. She spied the polished storefront for a fortuneteller and headed towards it, worming her way through several more people until she found herself at the threshold, peering into the dimly lighted interior, with elaborate displays of dreamcatchers, crystal balls and dozens of decks of tarot cards.

A wizened, aged woman wearing an excess of veils and scarves on her plump body looked up from her beadwork with a smile. "Ah, come in, mademoiselle, and take a break from the wild crowd outside. Would you like your fortune told today?" she asked, standing up from her stately wooden desk.

"I'd only like to sit down and rest for a while, if that is all right," Christine replied.

"Then please, by all means, do sit down," the woman said, swiftly clearing away her things and offering her seat to her. With a smile of thanks, Christine stepped into the quiet, dark shop and sat down, breathing a sigh of relief as her mind unlatched from the noise and bustle of the marketplace.

"May I offer you some tea?" the woman asked, gesturing towards the small stove in one corner

"Yes, please. Thank you," she said.

The woman poured some steaming tea from the whistling teapot into two porcelain cups. Despite her age, the woman was still full of energy, her silver hair in an elegant bun as she offered a cup to a grateful Christine. Drawing up another chair, the woman sat down across from her.

"My name is Sylvie. I hope you do not mind that I take tea with you, business is slow this time of year," she said, swirling the fragrant drink around in its fine cup.

"That's perfectly all right," Christine said, thankful for her aristocrat's manners as she gingerly took a sip of the hot tea.

"So, what brings you here to our humble marketplace?" Sylvie asked, wrapping her hands around the teacup.

"Just a desire to take in the sights…mingle with others," Christine said casually, clandestinely making sure that the scarf around her head was still secure. The commoners were largely ignorant of prominent aristocrats, and were only aware of them as a vague, driving force in society. Still, it would not do to have someone recognize her as Christine Daaé, the object of the Phantom's love and obsession. Gossip ran strong through the marketplace like wildfire and she was not in the mood for intrusive questions.

Indeed, she was not even in the mood for fleeting thoughts pertaining to Erik.

"Ah, yes, that can be an impulsive wish sometimes," Sylvie replied, smiling kindly at her. "Perhaps the pressures of society were too much for you today?"

Alarmed, Christine looked at her, fearing she may have guessed the truth, but Sylvie's eyes were honest, innocent, hiding nothing. She relaxed. "Yes," she said in assent, withdrawing into the partial privacy of her teacup as she took another sip of tea.

"I understand," Sylvie said, touching Christine's hand briefly. "Society can be quite overwhelming at times, always expecting you to do this or that." She took a sip of her tea. "About twenty-five years ago, I was married to a rich man. He had his money, but he did not have kindness. He constantly carried anger in his heart, and was jealous of my psychic abilities. So many times I went to sleep furious at him, hurting, smarting from the things he dared to say to me. A number of times I swore to pack my things and leave, but I never found the strength to. Then one night, he struck me hard across the face. That night I'd had enough, and so I left him. You can imagine what a scandal it caused here in the village. 'No decent woman would leave her husband! Absolutely unheard of! A curse upon you and your worthless family!' his mother shouted at me when she found out. Ah, I wondered so many times if I had made the right choice leaving him. But when my former husband was found to be chronically abusive and a womanizer, I was left in peace. Here, I make a modest living, and I am happy." She peered at Christine. "I hope you can say the same for yourself, dear."

Christine swallowed, thinking about Erik and how he made her feel alive, about Raoul and his sweetness, and how Erik had disappeared, a broken man, never to be seen again…

"Yes," she replied, the lie coming out much more smoothly than she had imagined. "Yes, I am quite happy where I am in life."

"Love is a strange and terrible thing at best," Sylvie said, running a fingertip along the sweeping rim of her teacup. "And people do strange and terrible things in the name of it. Have you heard of that mysterious affair with the Phantom of the Opera and how he went mad for that young woman, Christine Daaé? He even tried to kill her fiancé …"

Christine froze, terrified, all her veins turned to ice. In that comfortable way of older women, Sylvie took her silence for assent.

"Well, word has it that he fled that opera house as it burned and that he was captured by the police," she said, rearranging one of her scarves.

"Captured?" Christine exclaimed, unable to withold herself. Shock poured through her body, constricting her until she felt she was going to choke. She slid her hands into her lap, willing them to stop shaking.

"Yes, captured," Sylvie said. She took another sip of her tea, heightening Christine's nerves with the borrowed time. Setting the cup down with a soft clink, she continued. "If the rumors are true, he is now imprisoned and awaits trial for his crimes against humanity. I almost pity him…the members of the Parisian court are said to be conservative and highly corrupt…no doubt they will eagerly sentence him to execution…"

"That is…that is…" A thread of truth lodged itself in Christine's mind. The last thing she wanted was for people to recognize her for who she was. Therefore, she could not be compassionate. She had to be brutal. Clearing her throat, she spoke. "That is justice in itself." Her voice rang out strongly in the empty shop.

One of Sylvie's eyebrows arched. "You think so?"

"Oh, yes," Christine said as dispassionately as she could through her suppressed terror and shock. "He killed so many people and he tried to force Christine to marry him against her will. He is a living sin against humanity. He must hang for his crimes." Pain lanced through Christine for daring to say these things against Erik, but she could not be the voice of compassion when the commoners were still panting like dogs over the bizarre story of the Phantom and Christine.

Sylvie continued gazing at her steadily. Feeling her façade starting to break down, Christine stood up and gathered her things.

"I must go, I am expected back home. Thank you very much for the tea, Sylvie."

"Not at all," Sylvie responded, still looking at Christine carefully.

It was all Christine could do not to run from the shop and head home at a breakneck gallop. Forcing the inner tremblings of her heart to still, she gracefully excused herself and left, the wind chime tinkling merrily as the door slid back into its frame. As if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.


	3. Alone

**Author's blurb: The name Emilian is a Romani/Gypsy name and means "rival." This chapter also contains a reference/allusion to _Phantom _by Susan Kay, that's what the five-year-old angst is about (really good retelling of PotO, by the way, read it if you haven't already!). And if you haven't already figured out, yes, I am a total junkie for these blurbs. Sorry =P**

**Okay, okay, here we go...enjoy!**

Chapter Three: Alone

Darkness.

"_What I used to dream, I now dread. If he finds me, it won't ever end."_

"_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…"_

"_Behold, mesdames and messieurs, the Devil's Child!"_

_The monster with the bleeding hands…_

_They rattled the rusted bars of his cage, jeering, laughing, throwing moldy bread and calling him names…_

Erik shot up through black waters into consciousness, the sound of rattled bars translating into the grating of a key as it slid into a lock. Even before he was completely alert, his body instinctively recoiled on the cot, shrinking as far away as possible from the sound. He was unmasked, and his head felt like someone was pounding his brain over and over with a sledgehammer. Opening his eyes, he took in his surroundings. He was in a jail cell, sealed off from the world by slabs of rough gray rock that surrounded him on three sides. A tiny window with bars showed him the world outside as the sky darkened to night. A wall-mounted gas lamp provided the only source of light. The fourth side was a door facing a corridor, a series of iron bars that crisscrossed each other to form a heavy, immovable lattice. Through it, he could see the dark forms of what looked like two people, but the dim light and his dizziness rendered them vague forms of terror.

Adrenaline coursed through his limbs as the door slid open with a grating squeak to reveal a heavily muscled man with an unruly beard and a cruel brow. Beside him was a middle-aged man wearing a suit and carrying a leather bag.

"You're about to get a proper cleaning up, you disfigured piece of filth," the first man spat at him. The second man stepped into Erik's cell, carrying his bag with him.

A doctor. As a young man, Erik had mustered the courage to seek a medical cure for the horrifying scars on his face. The few doctors who did not run from the room yelling in fright were either unwilling to help him or did not know any cures for his condition. Standing out in vivid memory was a traumatic experience when one of the doctors had lanced open one of Erik's scars without anesthetic to see if there was any internal infection. Erik had almost strangled him in fury. Since then, he had retained a deep distrust of doctors, knowing they brought pain, and with every one that fled the room in terror, a sharp reminder of who he was.

He violently shrank back again upon his cot, the sound of the door thundering in his ears as it slammed shut. A cage. Vivid memories of his dark days as the Devil's Child swam back to him. Whenever Emilian, his Gypsy master, entered the cage and closed the door, the torture would begin. And now he was trapped on all four sides with another doctor, who was no doubt carrying tools for inflicting pain in that bag…

Erik felt himself reduced to a cornered dog. Surviving on guts and instinct alone, primal and dangerous. It was fight or flight. Unfortunately, fleeing didn't seem to be an option. He sat up defensively, biting back a groan as the room spun sickeningly, the dim form of the doctor distorted into a dark blob.

"I would advise you not to sit up, they tell me you were knocked unconscious," the man said in a surprisingly gentle voice as he drew up to a stop next to Erik's cot and set his bag down on the floor. Despite the horror that was Erik's unmasked face, the doctor did not show any visible reaction to it, nor to Erik's continuing to stay in a sitting position.

"What are you doing?" Erik asked in a growl, all his muscles tensing up as the doctor opened his bag. Despite the doctor's mild behavior, he did not trust him.

"Calm down, monsieur, it will take longer and hurt more if you struggle," the doctor said, taking out a vicious-looking pair of tweezers ending in sharp points.

"That's what they all told me. It turns out that it takes just as long and hurts just as much either way. What are you _doing_?" Erik snarled, fighting the dizziness fogging up his head as he recoiled as far away as possible from the man.

"Keeping you alive and free of infection," the doctor said coolly, clicking the tweezers together almost threateningly as he sat down on the rough stool by Erik's cot. "You've been unconscious for several days and you still have glass splinters in your hands, if you remember anything about the night you were arrested."

Erik glanced at his hands, feeling the pain from his wounds for the first time. His hands were liberally streaked with dark red trails of dried blood, the skin punctured here and there with shards of glass. Memories of his final night in the Opera Populaire flashed in front of him. His broken heart, the shattered mirrors, the dark corridor…

He had been fleeing society that night. And now he was forced back into its midst, imprisoned and trapped.

"Now hold still. This might hurt a little," the doctor said, leaning in and pulling Erik's wrist towards him. The tweezers clicked as they inched towards the buried pieces of glass.

Something in Erik snapped at the physical contact as déjà vu rocked his mind. _He was five years old, and had just come face to face with his own deformity for the very first time. Shards of glass exploded around him, lodging themselves in his hands as he destroyed the mirror in fear and rage with his little fists. They lay on the floor, sparkling and innocent, as the kindly, helpless Marie Perrault plucked the glass splinters out of his bleeding hands and bandaged them…_

He violently jerked his injured hand away from the doctor's grip. The doctor's eyebrows raised at Erik's strong reaction, but he did not say anything.

Erik held out his hand for the tweezers. "I'll do it," he said curtly. "I am not a child."

One of the doctor's shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug as he handed the metal instrument to Erik. He grabbed them, not bothering to thank him, and started to pull the pieces of glass out of his hands with surgical precision, his mind somehow managing to remain clear and focused through the throbbing of his head and the dizziness he felt with every small movement.

"It will need to be disinfected and bandaged," the doctor said carefully.

"Take out the materials and leave me, I can do it myself," Erik said coldly. He had withdrawn behind his mental walls again, disconnecting himself from the silent man across from him, from the stabbing pains of his hand as shard after shard of glass tinkled to the floor.

The doctor gazed at him expressionlessly for a moment before drawing out a dark bottle of antiseptic, several rolls of snowy white gauze and a small pair of scissors. Much to Erik's anger, he lingered.

"Not many can correctly dress flesh wounds. Perhaps I should do it," he ventured.

"Believe me," Erik replied frigidly, managing to keep his voice more or less civil as he continued to pull out bloody fragments of glass from his hands, "I've had many years of experience dressing wounds." Many times he had been forced to bandage the more severe injuries inflicted by Emilian, lest they become infected.

His reply had an air of finality to it, and the doctor responded by silently rising from his stool and leaving the cell. The door squawked shrilly as it closed.

Despite the fact that there was no one around to witness his reactions, Erik kept his face emotionless as he continued pulling, sometimes wrenching pieces of glass from his hands. He only clenched his jaw, his eyes intense and hard, refusing to let a single sound of pain to escape him. Some of the deeper wounds started bleeding again as he pulled out the glass, but apathy clouded his mind, shielding him from most of the pain. Only when he doused his hands in the antiseptic did he allow a sharp hiss of pain to slip past his lips. His hands burning, he deftly wrapped them up, using as little gauze as possible.

He cut the final length of gauze and collapsed back on the cot, his back against the wall. He finally allowed his walls to collapse, but not enough to succumb to useless tears. Primeval fear tumbled through him. What would happen to him?

_You know how corrupt and notoriously unmerciful the Parisian court is. You'll be put on trial, sentenced to death, and executed by a public hanging. So ends the reign of the infamous Phantom of the Opera. Let Paris breathe freely again, the monster has gone from its midst._

A trial was coming, he knew, and it was the only chance he had to save his life. The possibility of escaping the death sentence was very slim, but it was all he had.

_Should I plead guilty? Or not guilty?_

If he pled guilty, he would probably be sentenced to death without question. A short, clean trial without any complications. His name would become a whispered warning of what happened when a person strayed from the law. But if he pled not guilty, how could he possibly deliver convincing alibis? How could he lay the blame on innocent bystanders? Someone would be forced to pay for his crimes. If he pled not guilty there was a chance he could come away from the trial with a less severe sentence, but it would not appease his silent agreement that the Phantom had to pay for his wrongdoings.

He ran a hand through his hair and swallowed. Hell was coming for him, and soon. He'd never had to live by society's rules, until now. Much to his anger and fear, he now found himself imprisoned and completely helpless before the whole human race. Before judgment.

His blood ran cold. He had no idea whether to plead guilty or not guilty. And after Christine's choice, he did not truly know whether he wanted to live or die.

Christine's face appeared hazily before him, concerned, her eyes sad, one hand reaching out to him.

He called pleadingly out to her in his thoughts, the memories of her still fresh enough to tear open his heart all over again. He almost didn't care anymore. After feeling so much pain, he could no longer feel anything. All he could feel was his fear rising and his pride finally crumbling down to ashes, leaving a frightening nothingness behind. He allowed a single tear to slide down his marred cheek as he turned his head to the small window in his cell. The full moon shone down upon him mockingly. It was so far away from the earth, and yet it was closer to him than Christine because he could see it. It jeered silently at him, assuring him all was well in the world, when in fact everything was wrong. And the moon was all he had for company tonight.

He took out Christine's ring from his pocket, the diamond sparkling in the moonlight. He kissed it, fighting back tears as he ran a fingertip over its surface. This tiny thing was all he had left of her. He would never get anything else. The only thing he had ever wanted, he was too much of a monster to have.

Encasing the ring in his hand, he squeezed hard, ignoring the lancing pain as his wounded hands protested at the tension.

"Christine…" he whispered. So much he wanted to say to her. He wanted to say that he was sorry, that he loved her, that he was in trouble and needed her help…but the truth of her final choice and the overwhelming silence of his cell did not let him finish the sentence.

So the single word hung there, full of possibilities. And at the same time, hopeless.

* * *

**Dun dun dunnnnnnnnnnn! It's starting to heat up! Please leave a review if you can. Long, short, positive or negative, it doesn't matter, as long as it's genuine! Thanks! Much love, D-squaredShipper**


	4. Not Without A Fight

Chapter Four: Not Without a Fight

It was the longest night of Erik's life. He slept fitfully, tossing and turning on his cot, the cold of the jail cell seeping into his bones, his sleep punctuated by fragmented nightmares. In his dreams, towering, distorted silhouettes whipped him mercilessly over and over, the leather straps turning scarlet with his blood as it ran lazily down his body, only to be replaced by a cruel loop of rope being forced around his neck at the gallows as Raoul and Christine embraced, their eyes cold and triumphant as they stood together in the front row of the gleeful crowd chanting for his death. The trapdoor opened and he tumbled…

He woke up with a scream, the first time he had done so in years.

"Shut up, you squealing pig, and let the other prisoners get their sleep for once!" the man with the untrimmed beard from the night before snarled from his seat next to Erik's cell. He struck the bars of his cell with his hand once, causing them to rattle ominously.

Erik bit back his retort, panting with fright and glaring at the jailer, who had turned away again. Lifting up the hem of his shirt, he breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his clean, unmarred stomach. Collapsing back on his cot, he ran a hand down his face, images of his bleeding, tortured body flashing in front of his eyes.

The soft blue light of pre-dawn filtered softly through the bars of the tiny window into his cell. Another day was coming. But would he live to see the night?

Every second, every minute, every hour. Seeming like nothing at all, but so infinitely precious when you knew of a definite end…

There was nothing left to do but accept it. But he would not go to the gallows as a shell of a man. People do not remember someone's death, they only remember the way they died. Either with dignity and pride, or without. If he was destined to die, he would go quietly, but not brokenly.

But did he have to go at all?

Did he want to go at all?

Silence. Then, his mind spoke for him.

_No._

_Condemn me as selfish, but I'll escape. Escape and live. Somehow. If I stay alive, then the possibilities are endless. If I'm executed, there are none. When I make amends for my sins, it will be in my world, not in theirs._

Escape.

The Opera Ghost had returned, vengeful and cunning. A deadly, coldhearted calm washed through him. His mind was laying low now, withdrawing and creating plans. Waiting for the right moment to strike back against the ones who imprisoned him. Anticipating the moment when they discovered once again that the Devil's Child could never stay in chains for long.

* * *

A soft knock on the door.

"Mademoiselle? Lunch."

Christine let out a quiet groan and turned away from the sound, drawing the sheets up to her shoulders, but the knock came again.

She sighed. "Please leave it outside, thank you." A soft clink of metal and china, then the sound of the maids departing.

She had ridden back to the de Chagny manor, numb with shock and refusing to believe what she had just heard. Erik was alive. He was also imprisoned by the Parisian police and awaiting trial for his crimes. Eating lunch was the last thing on her mind.

Although she hated to admit it, so was Raoul. She had brushed by him, stopping only to reassure him that she had indeed returned like she promised she would, but she was tired. She spent the rest of the day in bed, the ticking of the clock and an occasional bird the only sound in the room. Around midnight, she had finally succumbed to a restless sleep and had awoken to a silent house. Only after ten minutes did she remember that Raoul had some business to attend to outside of Paris that day. In her mind, he was already miles away as she poured over old memories, old fears and new questions.

Should she go back to Erik? Or let justice be served to him? Should she help him flee or do nothing? If she did nothing, he would surely die. If not by execution, then from a broken heart.

In her mind, Erik slumped back against the wall of his small cell, his knees drawn up to his chest like a small child, gently running a finger over her ring as he struggled to keep back tears.

She knew him and she knew his mind. Part of him wanted to own up to his misdeeds and serve the punishment, but the deepest part of him did not want to die.

"_The members of the Parisian court are said to be conservative and highly corrupt…no doubt they will eagerly sentence him to execution…"_

But how could she go against the law to help him? She was not just any desperate young woman mad enough to break the law. She was an aristocrat. The instant someone realized what she was up to, it would be the talk of the town and she would also find herself behind bars in an instant. The shame and ridicule Raoul would have to bear. And just one more thing to condemn the Vicomtess de Chagny for, in addition to her humble origins as a peasant girl from Sweden…

She curled up into a ball, attempting to hide her face from the world. In another situation the mere idea of intentionally breaking the law and getting caught doing it would have stopped her dead, but this was Erik.

No, this was more than that. This was her Angel of Music, the Phantom of the Opera, the Red Death, a mere man, a circus freak, a genius, the only one who had ever truly made her feel nurtured and alive…

The silence of the manor pervaded into her senses. She had a choice to make, but she had to make it now.

She turned over on her back and closed her eyes. Perhaps there was enough time to drift off for a while first. There was so much she needed to think about…

But within seconds, the scolding chirp of a bird outside chided her into reluctantly getting up.

* * *

There was nothing, nothing that could be done. Hours of thought and application had given him no results. Erik suppressed his yell of frustration and withdrew his hands from his cell door. He had tried everything to spring himself free from this cell. The window bars were too thick and the bolts too tight. Even though he was slender, his hands could not reach the door's lock to pick it. Applying every single facet of his mind to the problem had resulted in nothing but bitter failure. Running his hands through his hair, he paced back and forth furiously, but it did nothing to quell the anger and fear taking over him like a phantasm. He had been called a genius, among many other things, but this was one of the few things that had defeated him completely.

Christine was the other.

He forced her image away for the hundredth time and continued pacing up and down the length of his cell. Escaping it had appeared a deceptively simple obstacle. But it had proved impossible. Even his brilliant mind could not dredge any more solutions to this problem.

The sound of footsteps approaching first meshed with his own, then became distinct. Erik stopped short and swiftly sat down on his cot, facing the door. It was probably Jules, the jailer, making his rounds. He had no limit of derogatory terms for the prisoners, and saved the more insulting ones for Erik. In addition, he highly enjoyed threatening prisoners with torture, and occasionally carrying through with his words. It would not do to turn his back to the danger.

Much to his surprise, Jules stopped in front of his cell door with a hooded and cloaked companion who remained in shadow. Taking out his great ring of keys, he drew one across the bars of his cell, the repeated clicking as it hit the bars both a taunt and a warning.

"Your first visitor, Monsieur Murderer. You have ten minutes," he barked at Erik before walking off.

Erik's throat became dry at the ambiguous figure standing just beyond the door of his cell. It could be anybody, bringing any kind of news. Or perhaps they were bringing a swift death without a trial. A dagger in a crucial place, a deadly needle, a snap of the neck…corruption ran high in the judicial system of Paris. Someone could easily have bribed an official to murder the Opera Ghost without the last salvation of a trial. So who was the killer standing before him?

If he was destined to die now instead of later, at least he would die without a jeering crowd celebrating his demise.

"Reveal yourself," he said in a tired but commanding voice to the figure standing silently in the shadows. "I no longer have the patience for mind games."

Without a word, the figure stepped forward into the light and slowly lowered its hood.

Erik almost fainted at the sight of the long, tumbling chestnut hair and the unmistakable glint of a wedding ring.

"Christine?" he whispered in shock. "What are you doing here?"


	5. Out of the Shadows

**Author's blurb: Christine has come to knock some sense into our poor imprisoned Erik's head. Hooray! ****No Phantom of the Opera characters were harmed in the creation of this chapter. Actually, Erik's pride gets wounded a bit, but I'm giving away too much...ENJOY!**

Chapter Five: Out of the Shadows

"I'll let you know when my mind comes up with an answer to that question," Christine replied, deliberately taking off her ring and slipping it into her pocket.

Christine. Sweet, beautiful Christine. She had come back to him. Mere days after their climatic confrontation in the cellars of the opera house, mere days after he had tried to murder her fiancé…

Erik turned away his face in shame, closing his eyes.

"Erik," Christine said softly, walking up to the bars separating them.. "What's wrong?"

"You shouldn't have...you shouldn't have come," he said, guilt pouring through him.

"Why?" Christine asked, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. "Because I'm married?"

"No," he replied quietly. "Because…look what I did. I know Raoul has told you. I threatened you and tried to kill him. And look at the faces of the people I did kill. Do you see them? Making gurgling sounds, their eyes rolling back…I hear them in my sleep, begging for the mercy I never gave them…" he shuddered. "It's no use, Christine. I don't know why you are here, but if you wanted to help me escape, put it out of your mind. Better yet, go home to your husband and despise me like you should. Let me hang in public before a jeering crowd. Stand in the front row so I will have a perfect view of the woman I will never get. I deserve it."

"Come here, Erik," Christine said sharply. Startled, he obeyed, standing up from his cot and walking over to her. Despite her diminutive size, Christine's flashing eyes cowed him.

"I don't accept that," she said fiercely, reaching through the crisscrossing lattice of his cell to touch his arm. "If I truly believed you were a monster, I wouldn't have put my reputation on the line to come to you. If you feel remorse for the people you killed, then you are not a murderer. You are more, much more than what you believe, and you have so much to offer the world. I may be confined by my marriage to Raoul, but I also carry you in my heart. If you die, or worse, if you give up, part of me will also die and the world would have lost a very great man. And _nothing_ you say will change my mind on that."

"You should hate me," Erik said, gripping the bars of his cell hard.

Christine's expression softened as she slowly ran her fingertips over his bandaged hands, watching his eyes close at the touch. "I don't," she said simply.

His piercing eyes penetrated her as they opened. "Why not?" he challenged her.

Both of her hands covered his, still clenched on the bars separating them. "As the Devil's Child, you killed your master to end the nightmare, to defend yourself. As the Phantom of the Opera, you killed in the name of love. That is not necessarily a sin. And I cannot hate you for that."

"Anybody can commit a crime and attribute it to being madly in love. That's no excuse," Erik said bitterly, gripping the bars still harder.

"No. For you, it's the perfect excuse. Nobody has ever loved a person like you loved me," Christine replied steadily, lifting a hand to run her fingers down Erik's cheek. He flinched and turned his head away.

"Stop," she commanded. "Stop doing this to yourself. Stop thinking of yourself as a monster. Yes, you killed those people. You also grew up in a brutal and hate-filled environment, never knowing love, acceptance, or mercy. Fighting back to survive was essential. As the Opera Ghost you only did what you felt should be done. If you're feeling remorse for what you've done, you are not past redemption. I know this part of you. Now I've put everything I hold dear on a knife's edge to see you, to save you if I can, and I'm _not_ going to be turned away if all you do is stand here feeling sorry for yourself!"

Erik's jaw tightened, his green eyes glittering with hurt pride as he released his hands from the bars and crossed his arms. "Fine," he said curtly. "So I'm not past redemption. So how do you plan to get me out of here?"

Christine bit her lip. "I don't know. I haven't figured that part out yet."

Erik exhaled slowly as the two of them descended into a thick silence. She was still just a young woman…

"What do you know about this place?" she asked him.

"The bars are too strong, the walls too thick and the lock out of my reach," Erik said, balling his bandaged hands into fists in frustration. "It's completely inescapable…even for me."Christine felt her heart twinge with sympathy. She knew total defeat rarely came to him.

"You have tried everything?" She asked.

"Everything." Christine did not doubt him.

"It's inescapable…by a prisoner's means," she said softly, realizing that she had a larger role to play in this drama.

Erik looked downward, not making eye contact. "Yes." The admission from him was succinct, yet full of a dark bitterness.

"Then getting a key is the only way."

He lifted his gaze from the floor to look at her, uncrossing his arms to grip the bars at eye level. "You are not a chorus girl at the Opera Populaire anymore. You are the Vicomtess de Chagny. You're taking an enormous risk to help me," he said, his gaze hammering into her. "Do you have _any_ idea what would happen to you if you were caught? Your reputation will be ruined and you will spend the rest of your life behind bars…if you're lucky. Do you think I want that to happen to you?"

The intensity of his words flooded Christine, but she stood her ground. She had already thought about this. "I do know what may happen. But it is a risk that I willingly take."

Erik shook his head. "Don't do this for me. It's not worth it. I'm not worth it. Your life will be utterly ruined if you are caught."

"God forgive me for saying this as a married woman," Christine said with quiet resolve, "but you are still my Angel of Music. Do not forget that you saved me from utter destruction after the death of my beloved father. How can I possibly leave you here to—" her throat closed off at the possible fates awaiting him. She finished softly. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

"I don't deserve your forgiveness, much less your love," Erik said emphatically. He was going to snap the bars with the strength he was gripping them with.

_He'll always be stubborn in his views of himself,_ Christine thought sadly. "We have already discussed this. Don't make me do it again," she said wearily, still managing to keep an edge of finality in her voice.

"Time up!" Even from a safe distance, Jules's harsh, cutting voice sliced through the air to them.

Erik's mouth dried at the harsh reminder of his situation. "Christine, how did you get in here in the first place? All of Paris is feverish with gossip. And Raoul?"

"Raoul is not in Paris today. And becoming a Vicomtess is not without its advantages," Christine said, tapping her pocket once. The quiet jingle of coins told Erik all he needed to know. Christine lowered her eyes. "It is not the moral way to do things, I know. But it was the only way." She looked up at him with newfound determination, gently prying his fingers from their death grip on the bars separating them. "I'll set you free. I promise you."

"I still don't understand how you can just forgive me for everything I've done," Erik whispered vulnerably.

"Neither do I," Christine admitted softly, letting her fingers ghost across his cheek. "But I do."

Before she could stop herself, she leaned forward through the bars and gently placed her lips upon his, letting him know her acceptance, her forgiveness, her everlasting love.

Erik's heart stopped as time fell away. He was swimming in the stars of heaven, and the last thing he wanted was to emerge from the iridescent brilliance. His hand found hers as it lingered over his collarbone, and he fervently clutched it to his chest. He melted into the kiss as he leapt with her into the furthest reaches of the human heart. Wanting more and more of this…

"_Time UP!"_ Still posted at his station around the corner, Jules's voice had escalated into a furious roar and broke them both apart.

Erik's heart pounded in his throat, too rapid for comfort from her brief closeness. "You have to go," he managed.

"I'll come back." Despite the danger involved, Christine's words held a promise.

"Make it soon," he said more steadily, trying not to sound like he was pleading. "The Parisian court rarely waits to dish out their version of justice."

Christine bit her lip, nodding. Drawing up her hood once again, she reluctantly turned her back on him and started walking down the dimly-lit corridor.

She was several paces away when he spoke again.

"Why did you even bother?"

The question hung in the air as she slowly turned around to gaze at him over her shoulder.

"Because even fallen angels can be saved," she replied quietly.

And with those words, she left.

* * *

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	6. The Chamber

Chapter Six: The Chamber

_"The man who owns sleep is watching the prisoners being beaten behind the fence. His eye pressed to the knothole, he sees the leather curling into smiles and snapping, he sees the intricate geography of ruined backs, the faces propped open like suitcases in the sunlight."_

* * *

Not all was lost. Hope still lived.

Erik stood, one hand grasping the bars that imprisoned him, the other resting against his heart where it had surrounded Christine's warm fingers moments ago. Her departing footsteps echoed off the stone corridor, growing fainter, but it was her words that rang loud and clear in his mind.

_Even fallen angels can be saved._

Not all was lost.

Not yet, anyway.

He rested his forehead against the cold metal bars of his cell. Before Christine had come, the only thing he had enough hope to wish for was a quick, painless death, regardless of the audience. But he knew better. The citizens of Paris had suffered under the regime of the Opera Ghost for too long, and to see his identity revealed had only escalated their desire to annihilate him. But slowly. They would draw out his death and do their best to attract as large a crowd as possible for the inevitable hanging…provided that nobody had been bribed to kill him in secret first.

But Christine had come back, swearing to set him free no matter what. Despite her social standing, she was willing to risk everything to help him. And despite what he had done to her, she refused again and again to hate him for it.

_You are not past redemption. I know this part of you._

The stubborn part of him still refused to believe her. _You deserve to die for what you did, _it mocked him_. I hope they overestimate on the rope length for your execution and you end up decapitated instead of suffering a mere broken neck. You deserve the more gruesome death…you MONSTER._

Despite the cruelty of the cynic inside him, the taunts faded away at the invisible sound of Christine's comforting words.

Perhaps the thought of freedom and redemption was only making him grab at false hopes. But as he pictured Christine's determined face, he knew that she would never betray him, would never let him burn of her own free will.

Even though it was still only late afternoon, tiredness stole over him. He could sleep now, and sleep in peace. The bad part was still coming, but for now he could dwell in the comfort of her promise, her words.

The crash awoke him with a start. Erik blinked his eyes groggily, unable to see in the darkness. Night pervaded thickly through the small window, making all the forms in his cell indiscernible. He squinted into the hazy blackness, but even with his superb vision but could not identify the shadowy person standing several feet away from him, nor the one just outside his cell. Instinctive terror started seeping into his veins, strangling him from within. Whatever reason he had been woken up for, it was definitely not an invitation for a drink.

"It's your turn." The snarled words came from the other side of the bars.

Jules. A tickle of icy chills snaked down Erik's spine. But before he could fully comprehend what the words meant, the hulking man a few paces away from Erik's cot moved in. His rough hand closed over Erik's mouth, strangling the cry of shock and fear that issued from his throat. Erik struggled valiantly, pinned down by the goon's amazing strength, but the man struck his face with a crushing blow that made the room spin out of control.

Starbursts danced merrily in Erik's eyes. Almost blinded by the blunt pain, he struck back, but his vulnerable position on the cot and his disorientation rendered his left jab almost powerless. In retaliation, an even more vicious punch landed on his jaw, hard enough to make him teeter on the edge of consciousness. As Erik fought to stay awake, he felt his body go limp.

"Don't knock him out, you fool. That defeats the whole purpose. Check if he's still conscious," Jules ordered.

A grunt from the man towering over him. Sharp fingernails pierced the skin on the inside of his wrist. From miles away, he heard himself groan at the stabbing sensation. Then Jules spoke.

"Take him to the Chamber. Then stay for the show."

Vague dread filled him as rough arms hoisted him to an upright position and he was half-carried, half-dragged out of his cell and down the hallway. The infrequent torches set in the walls dazzled him with their light as he fought against the suffocating darkness threatening to enclose him.

"No…" he heard himself say.

"Shut your filthy mouth and save your complaints for later," Jules growled savagely from somewhere to his left.

Erik came to just before they entered the room. The aura of light streaming from it forced him to close his eyes, wincing at the slicing sound of the door squealing shut behind him. For some unknown reason, three dozen gas lamps were mounted on the wall instead of the usual two or three. The blazing light threw all the objects in the room into sharp relief, creating razor-edged shapes and distorted outlines. Sturdy shelves and cabinets lined three sides of the room, all holding strange black items. Squinting against the overwhelming brightness, Erik could make out several powerfully built men standing scattered around the room. All of them holding various—

His heart stopped beating as slow, venomous ice ran through his blood. On the floor, mounted on the wall, resting comfortably in the men's hands, all around the room…were twisted objects from his darkest nightmares.

He was trapped in a torture chamber.

Rising up from the very middle of the room were two vertical black poles three feet apart, like black trees rising above a forest of contorted creatures. Taller than his head, with shackles attached to thick metal bands on the top and bottom, the poles dominated the room with their height. Stealing a sideways glance at Jules, Erik found his bottomless eyes riveted on them.

"Chain the Devil's Child to the Spit. Prepare him for roasting," Jules said, an edge of suppressed eagerness in his words. At his words, a henchman started rummaging in the drawer behind him.

_What?!_ Erik thought, his limbs freezing up with pure terror as three huge men came forward, grabbed Erik roughly and dragged him towards the middle of the room where the two poles stood waiting. Jules could not be serious. He couldn't…he couldn't possibly—

_Yes, he can. As far as Paris is concerned, he is perfectly enabled to do so. _

_Oh, God…_

Erik tried to resist as brutal hands locked his ankles in the chained cuffs attached to the bottom of the poles, but he was too weak from his earlier flirtation with unconsciousness to land a solid kick at them, much less fight the other six or so men in the torture chamber and escape.

For the first time in years, he found himself desperately praying to a God he had long stopped believing in. But his appeals to the Holy Father were interrupted by Jules's slightly impatient voice as he stood over the man's shoulder.

"Not that one, you idiot. You think Paris would be happy if I use just _that_ on him? Bigger and longer. "

A questioning grunt from the man as he made a small movement with his arm.

"Hmm. It will do, I suppose. Warm his back up good and proper," Jules muttered to him. He looked over his shoulder at Erik.

"The shirt," Jules barked, and two other men stepped forward to strip him of it. As the white fabric slid over Erik's head, he opened his eyes to find a bullwhip coiled in Jules's thick hands as he stood facing him.

Feverish sweat broke out all over his body as unseen hands shackled both of his wrists to identical cuffs dangling down from the two posts. The whip. The pain that it brought. It was just him and Emilian again. Him and Emilian. No matter what, Emilian would always win because he had the power. Trapped in a rusty cage or shacked in a torture chamber, it didn't matter. Any time he wanted to dish out pain, he would do it. And what could Erik do to stop it? Absolutely nothing. He was now shirtless, tied between two poles like an animal about to be gutted.

_Chain the Devil's Child to the Spit. Prepare him for roasting… _

"Why are you doing this to me?" The words slipped out unheeded from his mouth. That had been his silent question in his days as the Devil's Child. Now it was a last, desperate ploy to delay the punisher.

Jules leapt forward and delivered a powerful slap to Erik's disfigured cheek, making every scarred place sting with the onslaught of pain.

"Stupid question to ask, monster. You know very well why," Jules spat in reply. "You are a serial murderer, leaving a long trail of dead bodies across Europe and Persia. Tell us why not we shouldn't do this."

Like the night when he had bandaged his hands, Erik felt what was left of his pride collapse into a worthless pile of dust as he submitted to their rules. He had to play their game in order to live. "I get nightmares now. Their faces. Do you want any more proof that I feel remorse for what I've done?" His voice shook. "If you're asking for a confession, I'll give you one."

One of the men took out a knife and walked up to Erik, drawing the icy tip down his naked face. "Cry, scream and admit your guilt all you want, coward, it doesn't change anything." With a flick of his wrist, the tip of the knife sank into the flesh of Erik's scarred cheek, making warm blood pulse steadily from the wound. With all his strength, Erik held back his cry of pain as the man continued, tracing his bloodied knife over the rest of his face with a gleam in his eyes. "The judicial system of Paris does not extract or accept any confessions from the defendant until after the trial is over. You know what you did." His remark was punctuated by the spittle of a man to Erik's right as it landed somewhere near his temple.

"Don't do this to me. Please." Erik was begging now as he struggled against his bonds, his fingernails digging into his palms hard enough to leave deep crescent marks. Bound hand and foot, his utter helplessness humiliated him beyond measure.

"You're quite the squeamish hypocrite, aren't you? An eye for an eye…that was without a doubt your mentality as the deranged Opera Ghost. Although you dished out death plenty of times, you fear bodily pain. How pathetic," another man sneered, stepping forward to accept the bullwhip from Jules.

As the man moved behind Erik, Jules's voice rolled through the room like a round of merciless thunder. _"Seventy-five lashes. Begin."_

Erik braced himself for the first streak of burning fire, but he couldn't stop the scream of agony from escaping his lips.

The skirt of Christine's dress was wrinkled from the bunching of her hands in it. She had hurried through dinner without tasting the food, then retired early, claiming sleepiness. Raoul had not returned yet. She paced up and down in her locked room away from the curious eyes and ears of her maids, squeezing fistfuls of her dress in her hands as she thought furiously, trying to solve a problem that seemed to have no answer.

She had to get the key to Erik's cell. Probably from the cruel-faced jailer she had bribed earlier. Once she had the key, she had to spring him free and help him escape. But how? _How?_ How could she possibly get the key, and the correct one at that? Surely Jules would stop her and alert the authorities the instant he realized what she was doing. And how on earth was she supposed to get Erik out without attracting any notice?

It seemed completely impossible. And the fact that she was working alone in this insane crusade against the law was not helping. Two minds were better than one, many people said, but if she so much as breathed a word of what she was doing to another, she would be put behind bars as well, or worse.

_Perhaps they will put me in the cell next to Erik's. Maybe they'll do us a favor and execute both of us together…perhaps a pair of gallows facing each other…How romantic, the disfigured mass murderer and his aristocratic love idiotic enough to try and spring him free, killed together…_

She was going mad. How could she even consider doing this? Deliberately going against the law, putting herself, her life and reputation in utmost danger to help…to help Erik. Because he needed it.

Christine swallowed, but no soothing feeling of determination or conviction flooded through her. It was Erik. How could she possibly leave him there to possible torture and near-guaranteed death? He had saved her from withering away after her father's death. Now it was up to her to return the favor. And yet, she couldn't do it. She had sworn that she would help him escape, but her mind was too terrified at the consequences of failure to even work out how to go about doing it.

What it did know and remember was how beautifully Erik's lips had touched and moved against her own.

It was lecherous and an unfaithful move against Raoul, but although she was well aware of the Lord's punishment for infidelity, she strangely did not regret kissing him.

A helpless anger filled her heart. She had no answers, no ideas. And yet, to abandon Erik, to let him down, was the very worst kind of sin. She feared the consequences of that much more than she feared eternal punishment in hell for her moment of unfaithfulness to Raoul.

Erik had been abandoned his entire life, with nobody to help him walk through the darkness unharmed. He had never given up on her, but she had left him behind to marry Raoul. She could not leave him behind again. The cruelty of it would surely destroy him even before his verdict and possible death sentence was finalized.

Raoul! He would be coming back soon. Christine shook as her frantic pacing sped up to a feverish rate. _He must not know, he must not know._ The mantra repeated endlessly, echoed in her head. _He must not know_. She could not tell him anything. She did not know his true feelings about the Opera Ghost, but if she was sure about one thing, he definitely would not offer to help the two of them pull off this ridiculous heist. She must somehow manage to keep her secret buried deep inside, and present her normal naïve, sweet façade to the world without arousing any suspicion. Christine made her way over to her opulent bed and collapsed upon it, hiding her face in the sheets as she tried to shut out the world around her.

Dear God…did He know what on earth He was asking of her?

He had lost count of the lashes. After his initial shriek of pain, he had resolved to keep silent at all costs, not to give them the satisfaction. But vivid and terrifying memories from his days of torture as the Devil's Child assaulted him mercilessly as he stood chained hand and foot to the Spit. Somewhere around the twenty-fifth stroke, he had finally broken, releasing the terrible sounds that he had heard at night in his cell. Although he had not been ignorant as to their cause, the cries of pain were muffled and distant. Now, they were earsplitting. And worst of all, they were coming from his own mouth as he bowed to the pain.

Again. And again. And again. Eyes closed against the unbearable torment, he could hear his torturers laughing as they exchanged the bullwhip among themselves. When they tired, they simply traded off the whip, assuming that Erik's body would hold up until it was all over. How much skin did they think he had on his back? Did they not know how delicate it was after a few hard strokes? Did they even know what they were doing, or did they not care? God, were they even human, or were they demons, the cruelest facet of human nature personified?

He could imagine what his shoulders and back looked like now. Any place that was not pink and red from the relentless whipping would be mangled flesh, bleeding openly, dripping scarlet teardrops onto the already blood-soaked floor…

The telltale crack and the blinding torment. He let out another scream, his body jolting under the whip as he dropped to his knees, his body shaking as his fingernails tore into the skin of his palms. The blazing pain was so agonizing that he couldn't help it. He didn't even care about his pride anymore. It was never going to end. Sooner or later the whip would greet his backbone, and even then, his tormentors would never even consider stopping. They would only stop when they had whipped all the flesh right off his bones.

It was Jules's turn with the whip, and he never let up with his strength nor with his relentless words.

"How does it feel, _monster_?" Another lash. Erik let out a strangled cry as his body convulsed under the blow. "How does it feel to suffer like your victims? To feel an ounce of what they felt when you killed them?" Another lash. "Surely you must like this pain, otherwise you wouldn't have gone around making other people feel it." Another lash, and through the haze of pain, Erik heard the sickening sound of his own blood splattering onto the floor. "I should hear you begging for more. Say it! Tell me you like it, tell me you want more!"

"NO!" Erik screamed. "GOD, PLEASE END IT! _PLEASE!_"

His punishers laughed harder in response, and Jules put an extra snap into his wrist, making the whip cut even more viciously into Erik's ragged skin.

His mind and body had passed the point of endurance long ago. He was screaming mindless obscenities now, shrieking, begging, confessing to the Almighty Father, his body lurching and trembling under the cruel whip as it cut ever deeper into his body. Surely he had already died, surely the torture chamber was just an illusion and he was already in hell, being whipped by the Devil himself…

"GOD, I DID IT! I'M GUILTY, I'M GUILTY! PLEASE END THE PAIN! _KILL ME NOW, I BEG YOU! PLEASE!_"

His sentence ended in a drawn out sob as he knelt there in complete agony, powerless and bleeding, whipped beyond bodily tolerance.

"The last five," a man said to Jules, his voice echoing distantly through the thickened air to Erik's ears. "Make them count, monsieur."

One. Erik's throat was as raw as the skin on his back, but a strangled scream managed to escape it.

Two. The blow landed right on top of the first one. Erik's back bowed under the pain, his suspended wrists shaking violently with the physical onslaught. The familiar scream came again, louder.

Three. He felt like his entire body was being burned alive. He heard the unearthly shriek from his lips, but the repetitive sound ceased to have any meaning for him.

Four. _Just one more…one more and this whole thing will all be over…_

_Dear Lord, if you truly exist after all, you will have mercy on me and let me die tonight…_

He felt his grip on reality slipping away from him for the second time. Only this time, he did not know whether he wished to return.

Five. Not willing to surrender quietly, Jules put all his strength into the final lash. The blow was so powerful that it knocked Erik forward, unleashing a final drawn-out scream of agony from him. Only the chains enslaving him prevented him from collapsing face-down on the ground as he hung there, semiconscious and suspended only by the bonds on his wrists. He barely registered the cold words from Jules's mouth.

"Cut him down and take him back to his cell."

Four pairs of hands quickly opened the four cuffs and Erik collapsed to the ground. The floor was slick with his blood, every inch of his shoulders and back scarlet and bleeding profusely.

Barely clinging onto consciousness, Erik opened his eyes a fraction to find himself supported by two men, moving along the main corridor. They stopped in front of his cell and a third man stepped around them to unlock the door. The piercing squeal as it opened assaulted Erik's ears, already numbed by his own countless screams.

The two men holding him released him with a hard shove. He stumbled into his cell and collapsed to the ground, unable to move for the excruciating pain. If he dared to move, he would surely die…

"That will teach him," one of them said in an immensely satisfied tone.

A flash of white caught Erik's eye. His thrown shirt as it fluttered to the ground beside him.

The last thing he heard before finally giving in to the darkness was the shriek of his cell door as it slammed closed.


	7. Dreams of an Angel, Comatose Nightmares

Chapter Seven: Dreams of an Angel and Comatose Nightmares

_She was aware of her hands first. Businesslike, they held a mortar and pestle, grinding what looked like dried leaves to a fine powder as the darkened room she was in flickered and guttered with the light of a single large candle._

_A soft sound made her look up from her work. Her shadowy companion, feminine from her silhouette, poured a handful of strange herbs and small fruits from her weathered hand onto the table where they were working._

_Although Christine had never worked with these substances before, she knew exactly what to do with them, like somebody had placed the knowledge in her mind. She picked up from the table an unfamiliar fruit, testing it for ripeness before piercing the skin with her fingernail and letting the bloodred juice drip into the dry mixture in her small bowl. The fallen drops stained the powder where it landed, turning it black._

_The disembodied hand of her assistant handed her a vial of green liquid. "Now put it to sleep, give it sweet dreams in Oblivion," she murmured. _

_Christine stretched out her hand to take the vial, then let out a stunned gasp as the movement had shifted her companion's obscured face into the light. _

_It was Sylvie._

_She felt herself tumbling backwards, the aging fortuneteller's face growing farther and farther away as a swooping darkness separated them…_

_She closed her eyes, letting the unseen force take her through space and time. She opened them again to find herself moving forward rapidly through the blackness to close in on a scene of several men in a room. As the vague forms sharpened into focus, she slowed down and stopped, her feet finally resting on blessedly solid ground behind one of the hulking men. Knowing that she was little more than a ghost with no physical form in this strange vision, she crept out from behind the man's broad back to view the entire room._

_The entire scene was frozen. Several men stood around the luridly bright room in a large, loose circle facing one another, but not one of them moved an inch. She scanned the foreign objects scattered around the place, gasping low in her throat when she realized that the entire room was a torture chamber. Her eyes swung around to the two towering black poles taking up the center of the room, then slowly slid downwards. A man was chained to the poles hand and foot, facing her. His head was bowed, his body slumped in the kneel of a broken man. Out of all the people in the room, he was the only one moving. His suspended and trembling wrists, rubbed raw by the iron cuffs imprisoning them, were the only thing preventing him from toppling to the floor. His bare chest heaved desperately for air, his skin slick with sweat and reflected grossly by the unnatural multitude of gas lamps surrounding him. His shaky, ragged gasps were the only sound in the room as Christine stood, transfixed by the bizarre and strangely sensual image of the man. _

_Then everything moved. As one, the group of men shifted out of their statuelike positions to jeer and yell encouragement in a brutal chorus as Jules suddenly came to life behind the chained man. Shaking his arm out a few times, Jules sent the whip in his hand flying through the air to land with a horribly loud crack on the prisoner's back. _

_An earsplitting cry of agony lanced through the air straight into her heart as the man threw his head back, his mouth wide open in a scream as he looked directly at her. Knowing that nobody in the room could see or hear her, Christine let out her own scream as she clapped her hand over her mouth in shock. Distorted as his features were by the terrible pain inflicted on his body, the man's facial disfigurement on the right side of his face was unmistakable. It was Erik, and he was being tortured for his crimes._

_Jules withdrew his arm and let it fly once more, releasing an even louder scream from Erik as he slumped forward into the awkward position between kneeling and lying facedown. Christine let out a strangled sob as Jules held his right arm out to the side away from his victim and his audience, flicking his wrist in a deadly, well-practiced motion. She watched, horrified, as a sheen of scarlet detached itself from the whip to splatter to the floor. Blood. Erik's blood. Spilled without mercy for others' satisfaction. The sight of it caused her horror and fury to instantly boil over._

"_NO!" She screamed, pelting with all her might towards Jules. Her fingertips grazed Erik's heated and trembling body as she flashed past him. "NO! How dare you, how dare you! How could you DO THIS TO HIM?" She screamed, beating Jules with her fists. But she could have been merely blowing on him for all the effect it had. Having no substance and unable to be seen or heard, her arms sank through Jules like a stone through water as she helplessly pummeled him again and again, blinded by anger and hate for the man who dared to torture Erik so viciously._

_Jules ignored her, flicking blood off his whip several more times before speaking in a chilling, authoritative voice._

"_Cut him down and take him back to his cell."_

_In unison, four henchmen stepped forward and opened the iron cuffs imprisoning Erik, looking dispassionately at him as he fell facedown onto the floor, apparently unconscious. Christine cut her eyes away quickly as two of them lifted Erik up and carried him out of the room, knowing she did not want to see the state of Erik's back. _

_At that moment, she did not care very much whether or not God casted her down to hell for her improper language. A pulsing fury pounded through her veins, potent and deadly. She followed the two men carrying Erik down the dark, damp corridor, raging at them like a blinded goose and berating them mercilessly for their evil deeds. But her valiant attempts to make them feel shame for their actions fell on deaf ears as they wordlessly continued half-carrying Erik down the corridor back to his cell._

_Lingering in the corridor, she gripped the lattice of Erik's cell, falling silent as he was roughly shoved inside it to collapse upon the floor. She was so angry that everything in her vision was tainted a faint shade of red. But it wasn't until the door slammed shut and the men departed that the hazy aura faded away from her vision and she carelessly allowed her eyes to slide over to Erik's motionless body._

_A choked shriek escaped Christine's throat at the horrific sight that met her eyes. Every single inch of Erik's back was covered in vicious lacerations. Wet streaks of scarlet laced his mutilated skin and crisscrossed each other, the marks burning into her eyes. She couldn't tear his eyes away from his broken body. He was still bleeding terribly, the blood oozing out from his lash wounds to slide down what remained of his back onto the floor. Some of the wounds had cut so deeply that she could clearly see muscle through the rivers of blood…_

Christine woke up screaming, clutching the bedsheets frantically to her breast as she bolted upright into a sitting position. The sight of her bug-eyed expression in the mirror directly opposite her bed cut off her air supply and she fell silent, staring at her reflection and panting. Her fingers were numb, her skin too flushed and her heart pounding much too strongly in her throat for comfort as she drew her knees to her chest, resting her head upon them. Stunned to silence by her loud cry, the birds outside resumed their morning ballads one by one.

_My Lord, was that real? Was he really tortured so brutally after I left?_ A tremendous shudder wracked Christine's small frame as graphic images of Erik's destroyed skin from her dream flashed behind her closed eyelids. The colors were so terribly vivid, part of her couldn't help wondering if it had indeed been real. She had heard whisperings here and there that Paris had a notoriously corrupt and old-fashioned judicial system, but she never dreamed that they were still torturing prisoners. The utter _injustice_ of it…Christine felt her young heart burning with undiluted anger for those who had ever dared to torture another, no matter what the reason. Whether that terrible dream had occurred in reality or not, witnessing Erik's pain, the physical and mental torture he had undergone, she could at last start to fully understand the all-consuming hatred he carried for the assailants of his past and present. But while his fury was a black, poisonous cloud, her own was tempered by compassion and pity for his plight. If only she could resurrect her childhood stories and sprinkle fairy dust over Erik, erasing the psychological scars from his past…

_Fairy dust…_Christine mused sadly, absentmindedly tracing a fingertip up and down her calves. Then she stiffened. _Fairy dust!_

Fairy dust. A magic powder. Sylvie! But what was it she had said in her dream?

"_Now put it to sleep, give it sweet dreams in Oblivion…"_

Christine's mind was racing now. Put it to sleep…put it to sleep…put _what_ to sleep?

"_The lion shall lie down with the lamb…"_

The Biblical phrase swam through her mind without warning. Confused, Christine blinked a few times, thinking it over with a furrowed brow, but did not truly understand until she remembered Jules standing over the shackled Erik, a whip in his hand.

_Put it to sleep, give it sweet dreams in Oblivion…the lion shall lie down with the lamb…_

"A sleeping draught!" she said aloud. That's what the first dream had meant. A sleeping draught might be the only way to get the key to Erik's cell. As long as Jules drank it, he would nod off for a good five hours, long enough for Christine to spring Erik free. Once he was dead asleep and snoring…well…Christine twisted her fingers nervously. She could plan that part out later. Instinct told her that if the authorities were planning to execute Erik, it would not be today. She still had time, and today she was determined to make another trip to see him. Her mind still debating over whether or not the scenario of Erik's torture had occurred, she made up her mind to bring some bandages and ointment with her. God knew that much more than that was needed to bring Erik back on a full recovery, but at the very least, he would not succumb to infection.

Rapidly approaching footsteps brought Raoul running into her room, belting his dressing gown, his hair swinging everywhere and rumpled from sleep.

"Christine! What happened? I came as quickly as I could. Are you all right?" he asked, his eyes wide as he hurried to her bed and took her hand.

Christine's body slowly uncoiled from her balled position. "I'm…I'm fine," she managed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ears. "I just had a nightmare, that's all."

"It's all right, Christine. I'm right here," Raoul said, leaning forward to comfort her in a hug.

His essence swallowed her. Christine closed her eyes, comforted by his gentleness and his earthy scent, but was disturbed when a corner of her mind asked innocently what it would be like to be embracing Erik.

_No. Don't think about that. You kissed him yesterday as a married woman. And that is all you shall ever do romantically with him as a married woman! _The rest of her mind replied scathingly.

Raoul withdrew his arms, taking her hand again. "A nightmare," he mused, caressing her cheek with his free hand. "What was it about?"

Christine looked at her knees, thinking how to best explain her dream without arousing suspicions or opening old wounds about the Opera Ghost. "A friend. An old friend," she said, knowing Erik was much more than that. "The friend was being punished for something. I was there, watching. I tried to stop them, but I couldn't."

"Oh, honey," Raoul said, brushing a hand along her hair. "At least the nightmare wasn't real. Your friend wasn't being punished, it didn't happen. Perhaps, if you like, you can call on him or her later today. You can check if they're of sound mind and body, and perhaps while away a few hours with conversation."

"Yes," Christine answered, secretly glad that Raoul had handed an opportunity over to her. "Yes, I think I shall do that."

Raoul smiled. "All right, then. Your scream woke me up very thoroughly, and I doubt I will be able to go to sleep again. Would you care to join me for breakfast in half an hour?"

"Gladly," Christine replied, giving him a swift smile and happy for his quick forgiveness. Raoul grinned and left the room, his robe flapping.

Her cheerful façade fading, Christine collapsed back on her pillows, thinking about Erik and wondering what situation he was truly in. With any luck, she would be seeing him again in just a few hours. Rising out of bed with a sigh, she pulled her dressing gown on, padded over to her wardrobe and fetched a small bag from its depths. Languidly massaging her temple to coax near-forgotten facts out into the open, she tried to remember where she had put her stash of supplies for medical emergencies.

* * *

Infinite darkness fused with the blackest venom of unbearable pain, surrounding him, caressing him, singing soft lullabies of purest evil into his ear. Erik twisted about, trying to find the light, but could not.

_Even in the moments of deepest darkness, there will always be a light. Always. Look for it, Erik, and reach for it…_

The calm voice of his childhood mentor fluttered like a bird across the back of his mind. Father Mansart, one of the last people on earth he respected. But his words now came tinged with deception.

_There is no light. There is no light, Father, and I cannot escape. You lied, you lied to me! Why did you lie…? _

His mind struggled fiercely against the overwhelming burden. He had lived in darkness, but this was a darkness like no other, one that even he was no match for.

From somewhere in the distance a siren's voice sang to him, promising relief if he stayed. It was as simple as giving up, giving in, releasing his earthly bonds and letting the venom penetrate his skin, consume him…in time, the siren promised, the pain enshrouding him would fade away. But if he wanted to return, she warned, the pain would multiply thousandfold…

_Give in to the darkness, Erik!_ The unearthly female voice sang._ What is holding you back?_

_Christine…the love of Christine!_ Her blessed name broke silently and suddenly from Erik's lips.

As he struggled against the siren's song in the black void, a desperate last love swelled up inside his breast, finally bursting…

Her voice! She was here, singing to him!

Christine's seraphic voice met and clashed with the siren's in a dissonant, earth-shattering harmony that both attacked and seduced his ears. The siren imprisoned his left wrist with icy fingers, while Christine held his right hand with infinite tenderness. Helpless, pleading, he could only listen blindly in the darkness as the angel and devil fought with soaring voices, both captivating and terrible in their impossible beauty. Every time the siren appealed to him and tugged at his soul, Christine's voice was there, shielding him and forcing back the siren's dark temptations.

There was no victor. There could never be a victor. And yet…

_There will always be a light. Always. Look for it, Erik, and reach for it…_

Light. Love. Forgiveness. Things that the deathly beautiful siren did not have or offer.

Christine. She was his light. She had never given up on him. He could not give up on her, on life!

His eyes slammed open.

* * *

It was all he could do to keep from screaming with pain. Erik sank his teeth into his lip, determined not to make a single sound. Even then, his throat let out a whimper. He lay there facedown and paralyzed with pain as total agony blazed up and down his back in feverish pulses. His heart had multiplied in number and strength, beating out a savage rhythm along every lash mark he had to endure from the night before. He clenched his bandaged fists, but nothing seemed to ease the sensation that his entire back had been cut open.

_Which is probably close to the truth_, he thought grimly to himself. Distorted, lurid memories of his days as a captive of the gypsies swam back to his awakening mind. The terrible whippings he had undergone…Steeling himself, he raised his head an inch from the gritty, sun-drenched stone floor, straining his neck to see a sliver of his back.

Despite the numerous whips he had fallen under in the past, nothing could have prepared him for this. His back was covered with half-dried blood, the mauled skin hosting deep wounds where the whip had cut into him. The raw flesh that used to be his back did not even remotely resemble human skin anymore.

_Don't move,_ his mind said, both stern and desperate. _You won't be able to stop screaming if you move._

"Oh, Lord, why didn't you let me die?" he groaned out loud as he collapsed back on the ground, battling the pain with all his might. He arched his shoulders without thinking, trying to make himself more comfortable, and a wave of pain crashed through him in response, almost blinding him with its force. The beginnings of a guttural yell slipped past his throat, then died away. If it weren't for Christine, he wouldn't mind very much if he just closed his eyes and died right now. Never before had he suffered injuries this horrifying, not even from Emilian. It would be so easy to simply close his eyes and slip away into the eternal night, where the siren would sing to him forevermore…

_Christine…Christine…_ He lay there on the floor of his cell, his eyes closed, clinging onto her name like an invisible amulet against his last and greatest enemy. For her, he would do anything, even resist the call of the darkness. She was protected by her marriage, and yet she was still so vulnerable, so fragile. If he gave up on life, he would break her. He had always been the one to break her…

Bitterness took over him, his heart pounding more painfully than ever along the burning wounds on his back. It was taking all of his strength not to scream with the pain.

_You are more, much more than what you believe, and you have so much to offer the world…If you die, or worse, if you give up, part of me will also die and the world would have lost a very great man._

Christine's emphatic words seeped into his heart, gently muting the dark thoughts lingering there. Her love. Her kisses. The touch of her hand. Those were the only things he had left in the world.

"Erik?"

Soft footsteps. The voice was not coming from his memory. He opened his eyes, lowering his head to his shoulder just enough to see the whirling hemline of a dark cloak from his prone position on the floor.

"Erik? Are you—" The footsteps and the dark cloak stopped. Then a muffled thump as something fell to the floor. Then for the first time, he heard Christine's voice, riddled with horror, stunned enough to take the Lord's name in vain as she took in the sight of his mutilated back.

"Oh, my God," she said in a stunned whisper. "They killed you."

* * *

**Cliffhangers! Yippee! I know you guys don't like 'em, but not to worry, all will be resolved and all questions answered. Chapter 8 is giving me a bit of trouble at present, here's hoping it'll be up here soon! Thanks for your patience and PLEASE leave a review! ~Much love, D-SquaredShipper~**


	8. The Second Salvation

**Author's blurb: I haven't updated this fanfic since AUGUST (unacceptable!). My utmost apologies...schoolwork, college stuff and trouble with this particular chapter are to blame. Hopefully it was worth the wait!**

Chapter Eight: The Second Salvation

Christine could do nothing but stare like a common peasant through the bars at Erik. If there was anything more terrible than the initial shock of Erik's unmasked face, this was it. Even the ghastly images from her dream could not compare with what she saw before her. At that moment, she would have given anything to be on the other side of them, comforting him, taking care of him, letting him know that not all was lost. With all the torture he had undergone, it was a wonder that he was still alive.

He lay absolutely still, his eyes half-closed, his mutilated back a horror to behold.

"Erik?" The sound broke from her throat, the vulnerable voice of a pleading orphan only seven years old, all alone in the world.

He blinked, his eyes opening fully and focusing on her. She let out a shallow sigh, her temporary relief turning into horror as she locked eyes with his and beheld the silent agony behind them.

In that very moment, she wished that he had died. Damned to the infernos of hell or not, living to see another day was the ultimate punishment for him. The unbearable physical pain, the trauma, the irreparable scars that no number of years would ever be able to erase…

She raised a hand to her mouth, her heart wracked with grief.

"That was really their intent," she whispered, tears piercing the backs of her eyes. "Look at you. It wasn't any lashing they forced you to endure. It was a death sentence."

"They've been trying to kill me all my life. If not in body, then in mind." His voice was a raspy whisper, as if he did not dare to speak any louder. "And being dead on the inside, feeling all that terrible emptiness inside you, is much, much worse than being physically dead. I would know."

"Oh, God, Erik…" Christine whispered. "_Why?_"

"That's what I've been asking myself my entire life," he replied, a tired, faint thread of anger in his voice as he closed his eyes.

Christine swallowed hard, trying not to let her eyes drift to the scarlet battlefield that was his back. "I have to dress your wounds. Are you able to get up?"

Erik's green eyes opened. "Not without excruciating pain."

"Erik, I'm sorry. We don't have a choice. I cannot pass through the bars to help you and we cannot risk leaving your wounds like this. Can you try, at least?"

"For you, I'll do that and much more," he growled. Christine's mouth twitched as his implication flew like an arrow into her heart. Then a furrow appeared in Erik's brow. "How did you know to bring medical supplies?"

"I—" The rest of her sentence died away as she realized how mad her explanation would sound. She swallowed and pushed forward. "I…dreamed that you were being tortured. So I brought the materials, just in case. "

The sentence seemed to echo off the walls as Erik's eyes swung around to hers, glinting in a half-frown from his awkward position on the floor.

"Well—" his words were cut short by a loud guttural groan as he flexed his back, planting his bandaged hands by his shoulder to push himself off the floor. Christine winced, hardly able to imagine the pain the simple action had cost him.

"One of the few things I've failed to master and comprehend in my life is the realm of dreams." He broke off, sucking in breath through his teeth as he very slowly, very painfully raised himself inch by inch into a kneeling position, his back to her. "But if you knew through a dream what happened to me, I suppose that's a good thing."

He grabbed the corner of his cot and started dragging himself up to an upright position. Christine's heart filled with anger for his tormentors, hurt with the agony he had to bear. The raw skin of his back, covered with vicious wounds and still oozing blood, burned into her eyes as he raised himself up.

"Be careful," she said swiftly, pleadingly, trying to tamp down the building fury and hysteria in her heart. "If you open up your wounds more, I fear for your health. With injuries this terrible, you can lose a lot of blood."

"I would not mind dying at this point," Erik muttered.

"No! Don't you dare t—"

Erik whirled around, sparing himself only a brief grimace of pain before fixating his glare on her.

"Look at me," he growled. "_Look at me._ I serve as the whipping boy for the entire world's sins. I've been beaten, scorned and humiliated to tears since my birth. Even last night, they took it upon their hands to remind me gently that I am less than _nothing_ to them!" He spat out the last few words, shoving a hand through his hair and fully revealing his disfigured face to her. "I've been treated as a _thing_, the one _thing_ to which everybody can unveil the true side of their nature. Have I ever contributed anything beautiful to society? Do I have any true friends, any family that make my existence worthwhile? Has anybody, save you or Alexandrie Giry, ever cared about me? Take away you, the one single bright occurrence in my life…and what is left, Christine? _What?_"

He lunged forward, closing the distance between them in an instant and grabbing the bars so hard that they rattled loudly. Christine's eyes widened in shock at his sudden intensity, but she did not back away.

"I dare you," he said, enunciating every word as he stared down at her. "I dare you to look me straight in the eye and tell me that despite everything that I've suffered, everything I've done, you need me to live. Tell me that I am something worth saving, because you are the only thing that is keeping me here on earth. If you say I do not deserve to live, I will starve to death of my own free will. And that is a promise."

His penetrating green eyes had darkened to a shade of deepest pine, his bare chest rising and falling as his long fingers clenched the network of metal separating them in a deathgrip. Christine stood her ground under his gaze, her eyes quiet and soft as she reached a hand through the bars to caress his marred cheek. She kept silent as she ran her fingertips gently down the old scars, letting the gesture speak for itself. The clenched muscle in Erik's jaw slowly loosened, his grip slackening on the bars as she wordlessly stroked his face.

"I'm risking my reputation and my life to help you. If caught, I will spend the rest of my life behind bars. I came not once, but twice, and I am fully prepared to risk everything again for a third visit and beyond. Is that not enough? I wouldn't have done it if you meant less than nothing to me." Christine looked earnestly into his eyes. "Believe me. Please. I don't think—"She swallowed. "I don't think I can live without you."

Erik said nothing, his gaze like flint wrapped in satin as he continued looking down at her.

Christine looked down, shaking her head slightly. "I don't know what else to say." Mindlessly, she let her fingertips drift downwards past his neck and over his bare chest. She let out a gasp as he suddenly grabbed her wrist, his green eyes smoldering.

"Christine," he said quietly. She did not miss the constrained tone of his voice, nor the slight dilation of his pupils or the way his hand trembled slightly. "I am still a man, with a man's desire. Do not push me."

Her fingers slid through his as his grip on her wrist slackened. Eyes flickering, she withdrew her hand from his chest. "I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself."

A very faint spark appeared in the depths of Erik's eyes at her words. "Thank you, mademoiselle."

Christine raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards for a moment. Stooping down, she picked up her fallen bag and opened it. "Here. Turn around and let me tend to your wounds."

He shook his head slightly. "Jules. I don't know what he might do if he sees that you treated me," he said, a hint of fear coloring his voice.

"He will not notice if you wear your shirt. We cannot leave you like this-your wounds will get infected if we leave them. And of this magnitude? If left untreated, they'll become life-threatening. Please. It will hurt, but I cannot, will not leave this place with you looking like this."

After gazing down at her for a few moments, he nodded.

Despite her good long look from before, Christine couldn't help mentally recoiling at the sight of his mutilated back as he turned around. Dried blood coated his back, spiderwebbing away from it in dark, thick streaks.

Her teeth clenched in newfound anger, she took out from her bag a small bowl, a cloth and a flask of water. Opening it, she emptied the water into the bowl before soaking the cloth in it. Squeezing out the excess water, she reached her hand through the bars separating them, dabbing away the blood.

"I'm sorry," she apologized as Erik sucked in his breath in pain. Remoistening the cloth, she continued to dab it over the contours of his back. "I'm sorry that it hurts so much."

"That's all right," he said quietly. "The pain is necessary. It must come before the healing. Such is the way of the world."

Christine nodded, forgetting that Erik could not see the movement.

"You are sorry that I am who I am, that I was tortured."

The blunt words caught her by surprise. His tone had changed, slipping from quiet acceptance into harsh accusation. Her hand froze on his lower back, still gripping the damp cloth.

"You pity me."

The succinct, brutal statement cut through her soul like a knife, froze her in place, his reply echoing in her mind. No voice but Erik's could make those three words sound so unbearably empty and hollow, so terrifyingly devoid of emotion.

"No, I do not. My statement may have been poorly worded, but when I said that I was sorry that it hurts so much, I was…" she stopped speaking for a moment and closed her eyes, trying to calm down. "I burn with anger towards the ones who dared torture you so. If you hadn't been as resilient, you would have died. I am sure of it."

Erik did not reply.

"Do you think I did all of this out of pity?" Christine asked. "You are wrong. Do not forget our very first meeting. You know and remember how I felt, how enraptured I was with who you were and all that you were capable of. You know and remember how I felt onstage during _Don Juan Triumphant_. And do you think I kissed you, promised to stay and live out my years with you, out of pity?" Christine shook her head. "If I have to stay here night and day and tell you that you are somebody worthy of love, that not all is lost, that you are so much more than you believe, then I will do so. But I sincerely hope I won't have to!" Christine said emphatically, her hands resuming their work. "I have told you so many times, and still, you do not believe me. I can understand that sense of denial…to a point. But if you continue to degrade yourself like this…" she wrung out the cloth much harder than was necessary before setting both the bowl and the cloth on the rough table next to her. "Then there is nothing I can do for you. And that may be the end of it."

A strong, brief breath of air whooshed out from Erik's lips at her words as his hands clenched instantly into fists, his body rigid. Very slowly, they relaxed.

"I'm sorry. Truly, I am. I just—I'm not sure you can understand."

"I don't need to," Christine replied softly, laying a hand on his arm through the bars.

He turned around to face her, his emerald eyes burning, the scars on his face deeper than ever. Her angel. Mortal, beaten, wounded and raw, but still her angel. Christine's breath grew shallow as her heartbeat thudded through her bloodstream. Inches apart, separated only by the iron bars, his eyes lanced her through like they never had before.

She closed her eyes as warm hands captured her face and opened them again to find his deep green eyes inches away, pain and hunger playing through them, visible through the open square the large lattice afforded them at head level. He was so close to her…

He closed the distance another inch and stopped, the simmering hunger in his eyes becoming more evident as he stroked her heated cheek with his thumb.

An almost inaudible whimper slipped past Christine's throat. Her wedding ring was in her pocket, not on her finger. It didn't matter…if she played her part, Raoul would never know…

"No. We can't." The three words tumbled forth from Erik's lips, laced with stark agony and torture as he withdrew and spun away from her to brace himself against the wall. She swallowed, choking back her cry of loss at his touch, his warmth, his kiss.

"You're married to Raoul. This can't ever happen—ever," he said in a hard voice, his hands fisting on the stone wall as his bare back flexed. If he experienced any lancing pain from his vicious wounds of the night before, he did not make a sound.

Gaze drifting to the floor, Christine put a hand to her mouth in silent horror and grief, the feel of her fingers on her lips a silent mockery of what could have happened had he not pulled away.

"Will it—" Her voice was small, the words breaking through the silence like a lead ball through ice. "Will it ever go away, what we feel?"

Erik raised his head, his back still to her, and exhaled audibly. With all the space between them, Christine could swear she heard him swallow hard. "I don't know. Perhaps not."

"What can we do?"

"What we have to." His voice was mechanical, the words rolling off his tongue without emotion.

Christine bit her lip, her eyes closing as she felt the truth swiveling around full circle to strike her in the face. There could be no kiss, no life with him, no dream. The extent of her interaction would be limited purely to setting him free, then stepping back and doing the impossible by letting him go. She would return home to Raoul and his loving arms and play the innocent, faithful woman for the rest of her life.

"It hurts," she said aloud.

He nodded minutely and turned around to face her again. "My entire life has been full of pain. After that night underneath the Opera Populaire, I thought I had mastered it. I thought it couldn't touch me or hurt me ever again. Needless to say," he said, walking over to her again, "I was mistaken."

One of his hands gripped the lattice as the other lifted, hesitatingly, to let the tip of his middle finger glide over Christine's jawbone. "Quite mistaken."

She swallowed at his touch and looked down. His hand, which had drifted to her chin, lingered there, and she found herself focusing on a bright pink wound on his wrist which must have been put there the previous night by a stray lash of the whip.

"I'm sorry," she said in a low voice. "I shouldn't have come in the first place. I've made things worse, especially now when you're in so much pain…"

"Don't tell me you're sorry." Erik's voice had a subtle but emphatic edge to it. "Don't say that. However…" His voice took on a minutely less serious tone as he let his fingers drop from her face. "I would appreciate it greatly if you would finish bandaging up those wounds for me. Or perhaps you can give the materials to me and I can do it myself."

"No," Christine said abruptly, surprising herself with her firmness. Erik arched one of his eyebrows, his eyes darkening with emotion.

"It's not easy to bandage your own back," Christine said earnestly. "It'll be easier if I do it. Please, allow me."

A pause. "All right," Erik said softly. He turned around, once again revealing the horrors of the night before to Christine's eyes. She winced, but did not allow the horrific sight to deter her from cleaning and lightly bandaging his back through the lattice separating them both. She worked carefully with a gentle touch, trying her best to ignore the scarlet blood that was gradually staining her hands and letting her quiet actions fill in the new silence that had settled between them.

"There," she murmured some time later, cleaning her hands with a cloth. "That should be good enough." His back was covered almost completely with bandages, an anti-inflammation dressing under them. With him bandaged, the terrible sight of his whipped back seemed like a distant nightmare.

Erik turned his head past his shoulder to peer at his back, gingerly stretching his left arm over his right shoulder to finger the edge of the gauze covering it as Christine quickly put her supplies back in her bag. "That's the prettiest my back has ever been. It's a very good dressing."

The images conjured in her mind of a young Erik being whipped as the Devil's Child sickened her, but she managed to smile at the compliment. "Thank you."

His eyes flicked up to hers over his shoulder. "You're the wrong person to be saying those words, Christine." "I don't think you'll ever understand what you did to me, what you still do to me." He turned around to face her, their faces mere inches apart through the iron lattice. "Thank _you_."

Overcome with emotion, Christine managed a small smile.

"Say your goodbyes, time's up!" Jules's harsh voice echoed down the corridor to them.

"I should go," Christine said quietly, her voice laced with regret. Then her lips rolled inward in a businesslike manner. "Ideally the dressing should be changed every day, but I don't know if I'm able to come on a daily basis. Here—" she stretched her hand through the lattice, and Erik took the bag of medical supplies from her. "Hide this. If I cannot make it, do your best to change the dressing yourself. And sleep on your stomach or side, never your back."

Erik nodded.

"Be careful," Christine said earnestly, putting up her hood, "And take care. I'll visit soon, tomorrow if I can."

She stepped back slightly and made to go, but on instinct, Erik reached through the bars and grasped her hand. She turned around, surprised and unprepared for the way his eyes were now burning into hers.

"You never stop saving me when I'm on the brink of falling off the edge," he said in a voice rough with raw emotion. "Thank you."

She gazed at him for a moment before nodding. His grip slackened, and her hand slipped out of his as she left.

Her footsteps faded and Erik leaned his forehead against the lattice, letting out a long sigh as his fingers curled around the iron bars.

So tired, so empty. With all the different emotions he had experienced tonight, he was drained. Despite the fact that he had only been awake for roughly half an hour, he only wanted to sleep, to drop off the cliff of reality into the chasm of endless dreams.

The sound of heavy footsteps cut into his thoughts, coming from the same hallway Christine had disappeared down. Jules, no mistake, with those hands that had whipped his back literally to shreds the previous night…Trying and failing to force down the panic and terror filling him, Erik quickly picked up his shirt from the floor and pulled it on, ignoring the pain wracking his body as he did so. Striding over to his bed, he sat down facing the door as the footsteps came closer.

_Oh, God, if he's taking me to the torture chamber again…_

Jules's dark, wild eyes glittered as he appeared in front of Erik's cell. "Still alive, I see, and able to move and talk." He suddenly spat on the floor. "Insolent creature of filth! We should have whipped you much harder if you were planning on surviving the night. I'll be sure to remember that for next time."

Erik could not move a muscle nor reply for the crashing of his heartbeat in his ears.

"What, you unmasked pig? Can't talk? I figured as much, you monstrous freak. Well, that doesn't matter, you'll only need ears for this." Jules's voice took on a very smug tone. "They've already decided your case in a closed-door trial. Guilty on all counts. Your execution is this Saturday."


	9. The Tightening and the Approach

**Author's blurb: Sorry again for the long wait! Inspiration for this chapter includes the chapter "The Forest Again" from _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_. Hope you enjoy!**

Chapter Nine: The Tightening and the Approach

Erik knew, without knowing how, that it was Tuesday. That left only four days. Come Saturday night, he would be dead.

Well, all the Parisians would have cause to celebrate—they would get what they've wanted for years. They only saw a monster and a demon, not a man. And for his entire life, that was all he had seen in himself as well. Only when he was with Christine, could he feel that he was human and had some good in him worth saving.

He saw Jules wavering on the edge of his vision, perhaps lingering to drink up Erik's reaction or indulge in the victory of having effectively ended his life. But the shadowy figure did not matter anymore, nor the secret terrors those hands were capable of unleashing. Instead, Erik felt himself withdrawing within, being pulled into the poisonous lake of his past and drowning in his own sins, his own horrors and fears.

Jules said something, spat on the floor again, laughed, and left his cell. The door slammed closed with a ringing clang. Erik heard Jules's departing footsteps, but no longer cared about where the jailer was or what his whims were. Nothing mattered, nothing at all, when the end was so frighteningly near.

He had dodged death countless times in his life. He had also wished for it and almost achieved it during times of weakness. And yet, here it was, predestined, so cleanly laid out for him to helplessly hurtle toward like a loosed arrow toward its target. So why was it that when part of him had always wished for it, that the news of its imminence now completely paralyzed him like no other? Of course he was mortal, of course he was going to die one day, he was bound for it like everybody else the moment he was born, but to know of a definite end…he would have run a million kilometers or done three impossible tasks like in the old myths if it meant that he wouldn't have to die. And yet, he knew that even if there was something he could do to prolong his life, Death never played fair. He could never outrun or outsmart Death. That had been his silent taunt when he was hunting down his victims like Joseph Buquet and Piangi. _Death is coming for you…and you will die screaming inside…_Well, now he was the victim, tied up and incapacitated, helplessly waiting for the timer of his life to run down, the rope to be tightened, and the stool to be kicked away. For his life and his soul to plummet downwards, the last seconds of his life vanishing in slow motion, into the darkness…

_I don't want to die. But it's staring me right in the face._

He could not move, only stay sitting frozen like some bizarre statue on his bed. Maybe if he never moved, somehow he could evade death.

_You fool! Nobody can escape death, least of all you, when you flirted so closely and so constantly with it._

Christine had a plan. He knew she spoke the truth. But unless it was extremely well thought out—and unless his back could somehow heal completely in four days—escape was not an option. If that was the case, then he could only wait and listen to the relentless, agonizing, beautiful ticking of the clock counting down to the hour of his death.

He would live out his days caged and imprisoned like during his days as the Devil's Child…he would die with his back still wounded, a broken man…

But he had Christine's love. She had never given up on him and still refused to give up on him. If she ended up imprisoned like he for attempting to spring him from his cell—Erik clenched his eyes shut at the thought—he knew instinctively that she would nevertheless find a way to comfort him before the terrifying end. And if her plan failed, but she managed to escape, Erik only hoped that she would be there in the crowd for his execution. She would. Whether or not she would be with Raoul did not matter to him anymore. The first thing he had ever seen was the face of his mother, and it was beautiful…he wanted the last thing he ever saw to be beautiful as well. His eyes would find her face before the stool was dropped, and with that fatal plunge, his gaze would forever remain locked on hers…

Her dark eyes would be filled with the silent agony of having failed him in his darkest hour, and of having to play innocent for the rest of her life, before her own husband.

Perhaps she wouldn't even go to the execution at all. Perhaps it would be much too painful for her…

But she _had_ to…for him.

That was asking too much of her.

Erik swung his leaden legs onto his bed and fell backwards, his back and shoulders collapsing onto the thin mattress. He was going to die just four days from now. It was much too soon for him, just in time for him and not enough for him. The world would never know, never understand…

It took some time before the sheet of blinding pain rippled up his back, almost blinding him with its agony. Suddenly remembering what Christine had told him about not sleeping on his back, he cursed to himself, carefully turning onto his side and curling up in a fetal position. The thought of Christine's plan gave him hope, but he could not eradicate the nagging thought that it would not work. Too weak to resist, he allowed his mind to succumb to foggy, half-formed thoughts that had not plagued him since his days of imprisonment in the Gypsy camp.

_The moon is waning tonight…give it a few more days and on the night of my execution, it will simply disappear…gone like me…_

* * *

Christine could not breathe. Forget the fact that she had bandaged Erik up—the shocking scarlet of his bleeding back dug into her vision even now and simply refused to fade away. Was he ever going to stop suffering for something not of his asking?

_They had nearly KILLED him!_

Although unable to explain how she was so sure, Christine knew Erik was still in the range where his will to live, or lack thereof, could make all the difference in whether he lived to see the next day. She could only hope—she never had true cause to hope this—that his love for her was enough to pull him through the dark night. He had to survive—he had to. If not…Christine let out a low moan as she paced her opulent room once more. She didn't dare think about the possibility.

Which brought her to the question of the sleeping draught. Christine let out a tense sigh and ran her hands through her hair. An apothecary should have the finished product. She could only hope that nobody would recognize her when she bought it. They were the near-equivalent of doctors, without the preposterous expenses that came with them. Picking up a sleeping draught from them should be easy.

Thanking God for the frequent excursions that were required of Raoul due to his heightened status, Christine began to make plans for her next trip to the marketplace in disguise.

* * *

Bernard had been running the apothecary for an indeterminate number of decades. Ever since his older brother had eloped with a married woman sometime in the distant past, responsibility for its management had fallen to him. He shook his wizened head and absentmindedly rubbed the balding patch on his head. Even now, he failed to see the appeal of running away in order to be with a woman who was already committed to another by marriage. His father—whose memory was starting to fade in Bernard's mind—rest in peace, the poor man—had said that apparently the woman suggested the idea of elopement in the first place. Perhaps his older brother had liked the danger involved.

Bernard's head snapped up as the tiny bell over the door tinkled and a cloaked figure walked in. Perhaps he or she was looking for danger as well.

"_Bonjour_. How can I help you today?" he asked in a cordial voice as the stranger approached the worn stone counter.

A soft voice answered him. Female, but pitched low. "I'm looking for a sleeping draught. Would you happen to have any in stock right now?"

"Oh, yes. Several, in fact," Bernard replied, shuffling to the shelves several paces behind him and running a gnarled finger along the faded labels penned elegantly by a long-dead hand. "Anything in particular you're looking for?"

A brief hesitation, so slight that a listener would be able to dupe themselves into believing that it did not exist. "I need a more powerful draught than average. If you happen to have anything that would keep someone asleep for five to seven hours, that would be perfect."

"Ah," Bernard replied, partly in reply and partly in triumph as his hand wrapped around the sealed glass jar that contained the draught the woman was asking for. "Sick husband or something similar?"

Another hesitation from the woman, longer this time. "Of a sort, yes. He…finds it hard to sleep through the night these days."

Bernard turned around to face the customer, whose hooded face was shrouded in shadow. He shook off his unease; surely the customer would not harm him. "How much do you need?"

"Two doses should be enough, thank you."

His hands dutifully measured out the correct amount and Bernard handed over the draught into Christine's waiting hand. Taking care to put in an extra tip, Christine quickly left, the bell tinkling innocently as the door closed behind her.

Bernard shook his head as he watched the stranger go. Women in particular were so mysterious these days.

* * *

Sunlight poured tentatively into Erik's cell, illuminating a bright square on the rough stone floor and throwing a brightened aura onto the walls nearby. Sunlight and prison, two ideas that should not coexist. Yet, today was sunny. A condescending gift, as it were, from a God he still didn't believe in, a last favor granted him before his execution.

How many days had he wasted in his life, wallowing in anger, grief, despair? How could he have done that, thinking occasionally that he had an entire lifetime to live however he wanted, when this death sentence had been hovering over him the whole time, waiting to triumphantly swoop down upon him without warning, brutally cutting short everything he thought he had left?

Even being suicidal had been preferable to this. During those phases he had made the decision to truncate his life of his own free will. He had wanted it, rejoiced at the thought of an impending and violent end. A pistol shot to his brain, a dose of pure arsenic, his own Punjab Lasso: hundreds of ways to die lingering in everyday objects, just waiting to be discovered and exploited. And now...and now…he had been destroyed by the one great love he ever had, pushed down so incredibly far…he had wanted to die that night in the cellars, or so he thought. But when captured in the alleys behind the Opera Populaire, he had fought. And Christine had come back and brought him back, rekindled the fighting spirit he never realized he had.

He wanted nothing but life now. A life filled with shadows, roughly hewn paths and dark journeys with unknown destinations lit only by the cold stars above, but a life. Christine had given him that desire, along with a desperate, grasping possibility that for once, he could have what he wanted.

Still, he could not shake the feeling that all would be in vain.

* * *

She had fretted, wrung out her brain several times, cried aloud that she was not a professional thief and knew not what she was doing, and eventually drew up a primitive plan for springing Erik from prison. She leaned back in her elaborately carved chair and waited for more refined ideas to come, but none were forthcoming. Sighing deeply and rubbing her temples, she slowly stood up, searching for the now well-worn cloak she always wore when visiting Erik. A pang of guilt stole through her like a dark fog through a city: she had been devoting more of her energy to Erik than Raoul, more energy to an imprisoned madman than her own husband! Her hand found the cloak and clenched it hard with a defensive fury, leaving deep creases in the wool, but she could not dredge up a satisfactory excuse for her actions. Clenching her teeth, she threw the cloak around herself in a whirl of dark material as she swept from the room down to the stables.

The man on duty was not Jules, but a younger man who could not resist the telltale clink of Christine's coins. However, Jules appeared out of the shadows to escort Christine to Erik's cell.

"A bit late to be forming acquaintances with prisoners, don't you think?" His jeering voice floated down the stone corridor, to where Christine knew Erik was. "You seem to be visiting him a lot lately. Don't get too attached to him now—I know his hideousness must be positively _intriguing_ for most people, but don't treat him like a circus attraction—he's already had that thrilling pleasure!" he crowed, punctuating his declaration with a short, nasty laugh. Christine dared not reply, and Erik responded with silence as well. Jules struck the bars of Erik's cell once as he withdrew to his post at the end of the hall. "You have ten minutes."

"Erik," Christine breathed, stepping forward until the bars imprisoning Erik touched her body.

He swiftly rose from his seated position on the edge of his bed and approached her, stopping a few feet from the bars and gazing at her as if he could never look enough.

His silence puzzled Christine, but she did not dwell upon it. "How is your back healing? And do not lie," Christine said, her last few words firm as she lowered her hood.

"It doesn't matter."

Christine's breath rushed from her at Erik's words. His voice was stark and flat, seemingly leeched from him in a leaden whisper, as lifeless as the iron bars separating them. His eyes flickered faintly and he swayed for a second; Christine instinctively stretched her arms through the bars, forgetting that she could not reach him in this slight distance.

"It doesn't—it doesn't matter?" Flutterings of fear flitted their way into Christine's heart as the very beginnings of a devastating realization manifested on the edges of her mind. "Erik, how can you…what do you mean?"

"It's over." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "They're going to execute me in four days."

It was Christine's turn now to sway in shock; before brutal common sense could stop him, Erik found himself closing the distance between them both, reaching through the bars to grasp her arms before she could collapse.

"Execute…four…days…" she whispered between gasping breaths. "That's too…too…"

She inhaled shakily as tears stung her eyes and gulped, but managed to steady herself by gripping the heavy latticework separating them at chest level. Erik released her arms, withdrawing his hands back through the iron lacework to grip the cruel bars high above them. His eyes had darkened, and he looked defeated, exhausted, the lights in them extinguished.

"That's too soon," she managed. "I can't…lose you. I can't…let you go that soon."

Erik's throat stung at the weight her words held. Why was she saying these things? He had reminded her that they could no longer be together or pretend to be so, not when Raoul was in Christine's life as her husband, and yet here she was, speaking such tantalizing words of longing, affection, passion…

The litany of dark mutterings in his head suddenly cut short, leaving a ringing silence behind. _How dare you resent her words. You know you were thinking the very same thing._ And he was.

His hands meandered from their position high above them both, drifting downward to brush over hers. Her hands. Slim, warm, strong: another gift granted him days before the very end. After a moment he made to withdraw them, but Christine swiftly reached through the bars and caught his hands, hanging on to them fiercely. A lump expanded in Erik's throat as his gaze drifted up to her pale face. Grief and sorrow resided there in her eyes as he allowed his fingers to envelop hers. All the wrong emotions. She was not made for a life of sadness and lingering dark thoughts, but one full of joy and love. A life he hoped that he could give her. A life that he now knew he could not, when his death was so near.

"I know," he managed. "I can't…I can't come to terms with it either." He turned his head to one side. "I shouldn't be like this. I should be stronger. Stronger for you. Stronger for me. Stronger to show all of Paris that I won't go to my death broken."

"Don't be," Christine said softly. Surprised, Erik turned to look back at her, and she continued, her voice gathering strength. "Don't be strong. There is time yet. You don't need to live for other people, don't need to prove anything. You don't need to be somebody that you are not. Never. Not for me." Her voice became quiet again. "You don't need to be strong. Not in this moment. You can let go, if you need to. It's all right."

"Since Jules told me about the coming execution, everything seems…so unreal," he said. "Even this." He looked down and stroked her hands with his own, just once. His mind screamed for more of the lingering contact, but he resisted. He wasn't ready to appear desperate and clinging. Not yet. "If I wanted to weep and visibly lose all hope, I'm not even sure I could."

"If you cannot, then don't start now." The firm tone of Christine's voice made him look up in surprise. Her eyes were alight with a strange fire that Erik could not place. "I've figured out how to free you from this place. But I cannot do it alone."

Erik's heart plummeted as the reality of his situation sank in again. He was a pariah, a despised murderer who all of France wanted dead, save for the woman standing in front of him. "Who in the world can you possibly convince to help you free the Phantom of the Opera from death row?"

"Oh, I didn't need to convince them at all, they agreed at once to help," Christine replied, the fiery light still simmering in her eyes.

Erik could only furrow his brow in confusion.

Christine suddenly smiled, a grin with an edge of savagery that nevertheless seemed to light up his entire cell as she grasped his hands tighter and leaned in, her words coming out in a hushed whisper. "Erik, Erik, have you forgotten so soon about the Girys?"


	10. Loyalty

**Author's blurb: Apparently I can only work on fanfiction during my winter and summer breaks now :( Ah well, hope it's worth the wait! Enjoy!**

Chapter Ten: Loyalty

The Girys. A pang of regret lanced through Erik for not having given them a moment's thought over the past several days. Alexandrie, a demanding ballet mistress with a surprisingly compassionate heart who had once saved him from imprisonment, and would come to save him again. He had not even thought of her since the New Year's masquerade ball, when, following the Vicomte de Chagny after their confrontation in the mirror chamber, he had eavesdropped on Alexandrie telling the Vicomte about the Phantom's past. He had been mad then, he admitted it freely now, mad with love and insane with it. And that night of the _Don Juan_ premiere, Christine had saved him and he had changed, but he had fled without seeing to her fate. How could he have simply thrown away twenty years of her friendship like that?

And then there was the mademoiselle. Meg, her name was. He knew her to be Christine's dearest friend, and a more social, joyful creature than Christine. Apart from her, he knew little else of substance. But judging from how Alexandrie talked about her, he knew her to be loyal and trustworthy.

He had indeed forgotten about them.

"How are they?" he asked, leaning closer to Christine until they were hunched together, their faces inches apart through the bars. "Are they—did they—" His sentence faded out, strangled in his throat.

"They are well. The Opera Populaire burned to the ground, but the two of them managed to get out uninjured. Madame Giry is operating a small dancing school out of her home now, and Meg is helping her." Christine slackened her grip. "I met with them. They have agreed to help us."

"They're mad. You're mad," Erik whispered hoarsely. "Do they know what's at stake for them? They're putting _everything_ on the line to help the Phantom of the Opera escape one of the most zealous judicial systems in Europe!"

"They know the risks, Erik, all of them, and yet they still agreed to help. Not out of obligation to me, but because they see something in you that Paris does not." Christine's voice then developed a surprisingly hard edge, an unyielding tone that did not allow room for negotiation. "You are right, Erik. They _are_ putting everything on the line to help you escape. One does not do that lightly. Will you refuse their aid?"

Erik's eyes flickered and slid out of focus, his hands sliding out of her grip to hang loosely at his sides, and Christine knew that in that moment Erik was not looking at her, but remembering his past, witnessing the present and seeing his future. He suddenly flinched, and she knew he had felt the rope snap his neck.

He closed his eyes and kept them closed for a long moment after, his breath rapid and shallow, then gradually relaxing. When he opened them, there was a faint note of resignation in his forest-green irises.

"No," he replied quietly. "I will not. They would never forgive me. For their sake…and my own…I will not."

"Good," Christine said quietly. She then proceeded to quickly whisper the escape plan into Erik's ear. His face darkened a few times and at others contorted with a questioning look, but after she finished, he nodded and accepted it without protest.

"We will spring you from prison in two days, at nightfall," she concluded, toying with the folds of her cloak nervously. "I pray to God that we will be successful."

"Are you sure God would want this?"

The question came out of Erik, flat and disbelieving. Christine's jaw tightened at his words. Years ago, she had believed him to be the Angel of Music, a heavenly being with a glorious voice in God's employ who regularly took company with Him. Only later would she find out that he was only a man. Yet, she still believed him to be Heaven-touched…

God had never been with Erik, had seemingly never walked with him through the darker and darkest parts of his life. He would never let Erik know if He wanted him to be free.

"I cannot answer for Him," Christine replied honestly. "And I cannot, will not feed words into your mouth, not if the hope in them may be false. But I know my own mind, and_ I_ want this. I know what you are, Erik. I know what you have done. And you do not see me turning away from you. I may have in the past, but not now. You have gone through so much, Erik, done so many terrible and wonderful things…and you have changed beyond what you knew yourself to be, still believe you are. It is not your time, not yet. You deserve life. You do. But you must promise me something."

"Anything." The word broke from Erik in a whisper, but his voice underneath was strong.

"Use the years ahead of you for music, for exploration, for redemption, whatever you like. But do not squander what I am capable of giving. If by some miracle we succeed, do not—_do not_—waste away your life, or cut it short altogether, by torturing yourself with what is past. You are not the monster I felt I was running away from and living in fear of just a few months ago. You have changed, and you can give so much to the world, if only you would let yourself believe it. Do not let our efforts be in vain, do not forsake my gesture of love. This will be the only chance you have to survive—and live. Do not waste it." Christine's face was flushed, her words emphatic, her dark eyes fierce and demanding like Erik had never seen them before. "Promise me."

"I promise," Erik replied.

Christine let out a sigh, her face relaxing. "Thank you," she murmured. She stepped back and cast a quick glance over her shoulder. "I must go. But one more thing," Christine said. "You have not answered me yet. How is your back healing?"

It is healing," Erik replied wearily. Whether it was from resignation or exhaustion, Christine could not tell. "Whether or not it will have healed enough in two days is up to Fate."

Christine caught his deliberate wording, his avoidance of religious deities, but gave him a small smile. "Let us hope. If we do not, what do we have?"

"Nothing," Erik replied through a dry throat.

Christine smiled sadly. "That's right."

Absently, she reached through the bars at waist level, just managing to touch the backs of his hands as they lay limply by his sides.

Erik froze for a moment, then grasped her fingers with a veiled fervor as he stepped closer to her. She was beautiful, married, reckless, and the only chance he had of escaping a grisly death for a world of shadows. If he was going to be killed by an assassin before his planned execution—Paris had been guilty of such crimes in the past—this would be the last time he ever saw her, and he wanted to have a memory of beauty and passion that he could take to the end.

Erik's long fingers twined with Christine's, his eyes demanding reassurance from her that their mad bid for his freedom would work, begging for Fate to step in and deal them a favorable hand. But she had nothing, no answers to give that would not be false hope. She only had herself, her thoughts and her desperate prayers. And Erik had only her.

Inches from hers with only the bars to separate them, his dark green eyes burned with a fierce desire that almost had her closing her eyes with the force of it, but she steeled herself and held his gaze, noting that hiseyes held the slightest edge of restraint. Even through their heightened emotions, he held back and left the choice to her.

"In case things go wrong…" she said in a voice shaky from his gaze and the faint terror surrounding her like a siren song.

"They won't. They can't." Erik said through his teeth. "I won't allow it. I'll crucify myself ten times before I bow my head in defeat and allow Fate to merit such an end to our story."

Christine's lips curled up the smallest fraction at his stubbornness. "But if they do…" she paused for a moment, pushing all thought of Raoul from her mind, making sure that when she said the words, they would be soft and true. "I love you."

Erik's throat constricted violently at her words and he found himself fighting for breath. As his body froze, his blood roared swiftly through his veins, hot and ready. During his years of tutoring her voice and nurturing her soul, talking to her and singing to her as she slept…when she came to his lair for the first time, or the second time…never before had she ever spoken those words to him. He had dreamed, years and years ago, that a woman would come to him without fear and state the same declaration, simply and unashamedly. _I love you_. He had dared to speak those sacred words to Christine, but until now she had never echoed the sentiment, leading the cynical part of his mind to believe that Christine never cared for him to the same magnitude that he did.

"You…you love…you love me…?" he said, disbelievingly. Surely he was in one of his rare pleasant dreams. Any second now he would wake up and be escorted to the gallows.

"Yes," she breathed. "I believe I loved you from years ago, only I was too young to realize what strange form it could take and what it all meant. Raoul is my husband and I do love him, but you have all of me, captured my heart from my childhood. And how can I ask for it back, when I'm so happy that you are the one holding it? If the plan should fail and all comes to darkness, I love you, Erik. I love you."

Christine's words hit Erik like a blow to his stomach, and he gripped her hands tightly as his face melted under heaving breaths, a tangled web of pain crawling slowly up his chest into his throat, moistening his eyes and releasing silent tears, blurring his vision until he could barely see the pale, angelic figure in front of him, the face of the first and only person who had ever dared to love him wholly, completely, genuinely.

The angel calmly tipped up onto her toes and planted a gentle kiss on his scarred and mottled cheek, sending him into new realms of tortured joy. Pulling back, she reached up and stroked his wet cheek gently. "Don't cry," she said. "It's only the truth."

The truth. The truth could wound souls permanently and kill them. The truth was that he was horrendously deformed and that not even the best doctors in the world could fix him, condemning him to a life of shame and humiliation. But there was something else that he had forgotten long ago, which was that the truth could also free a person with its simple, plain enunciation of reality.

_I love you, Erik. I love you._ He knew he would take her words to his grave, whether in days or in decades.

He grasped her hand before she could withdraw it completely and held to his heart tightly as they leaned their foreheads together, his breathing erratic and shaky, hers quiet and steady as the last strains of daylight fought their way through the windows to color Erik's cell and the narrow stone corridor.

She waited until he was ready to let her go. When the frantic thudding of his heart had subsided, he peeled her hand away from his chest, still clinging to it. After a long moment, his hold slackened and he withdrew his hand, his fingers trailing from hers slowly.

Although his face was still damp with his tears, his green eyes were now bright and calm, the light behind them flickering strongly with self-assurance. Understanding his expression as consent to leave, Christine pulled up the hood on her cloak and slowly backed up, keeping her eyes on his. Erik could have sworn he saw a ghost of a reassuring smile on her face as she turned away and walked quietly down the corridor out of sight.

Erik exhaled heavily, managing to grab at the bars above him just before his legs gave out. Not from weakness, although his back was stinging mightily. From a turbulent swirl of emotions that he had not allowed himself to relive since that night in the cellars of the opera house. Joy, love, and overwhelming gratitude. Although his body felt like butter left too long in the sun, he pulled himself up, forcing himself to stand once again. More than just words, more than just a brief touch to his cheek, more than even love, Christine had given him strength for his darkest hour yet to come, strength drawn up from the deepest, most forgotten recesses of his soul, strength he wished he could give back to her in this lifetime.

_You never stop saving me when I'm on the brink of falling off the edge._ She had saved him, once again, almost without trying.

Standing up straight, he drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, fighting the soreness spreading like a warm web across his healing back and feeling a newfound strength in his two legs. In that moment, he knew that no matter what form Death came in for him, he would not go to the end a broken spirit.

* * *

Trees flew by on either side, their dark green shapes combining into twin blurs, but Christine wasn't paying attention to the scenery this time. Hard gallops across the countryside were traditionally difficult situations to admire the greenery and wildflowers, anyway. Chaser had galloped this path enough times now that she knew the way by heart, and pounded along it now with hearty snorts of delight and thumping hooves, leaving Christine to her own thoughts and memories.

Her mind flashed back to the day before, when she had slipped out unseen to meet with Madame Giry and Meg. Hurrying to their front door, she banged on it with her fist.

A wide-eyed maid in her mid-twenties had opened the door. To her relief, she did not seem to recognize her. "May I help you, Madame?"

"My name is Christine. Please tell the Madame I must see her at once, it's very urgent."

"At once, madame," she said, curtsying. "Please come in and make yourself comfortable."

Christine entered the house, looking around her with interest. If it weren't for the pair of pointe shoes strewn on the floor, she would not have guessed that there was a ballet studio here. It must be located in the back.

A rustling of skirts announced the approach of Madame Giry, her cheeks flushed, her hair in its characteristic long braid down her back. "The Vicomtess de Chagny lives, and is in my own home! What an honor! How lovely to see you again," she said, actually dipping into a deep curtsy.

Unsure whether Madame Giry was joking or serious in her gesture of obeisance, Christine smiled and closed the distance between them, placing her hands on Madame Giry's arms and bidding her to rise. "Please, I come from peasantry and have no use for fancy titles and curtsying. I'm still Christine, just Christine."

Madame Giry let out a genuine smile and wrapped Christine in a tight embrace. "It has been so long since I've seen you, dear. Not since the fire." She withdrew from Christine and stroked her cheek. "How have you been, my child? And the Vicomte?"

Christine took a breath to reply, but paused. "We are married, you know this, but…perhaps we could discuss this in a more private place?"

Understanding bloomed in Madame Giry's face. "Of course." She turned to lead Christine to the staircase, but Christine laid a hand on her arm.

"Is Meg free?" she asked in a low voice.

"At the moment, yes," Madame Giry replied.

"Could you fetch her as well? I believe that she can…help," Christine said.

At the word _help_, Madame Giry raised an eyebrow, but nodded and bustled off, calling Meg's name. Another voice responded in the distance, accompanied by rapidly approaching footsteps.

"Christine!" High and joyful, the sound of Meg's voice never failed to turn Christine's head. As she did so, Meg came around the corner, almost running, and embraced Christine tightly. Christine's arms went around Meg and hugged tightly back, a smile tugging her lips upward.

"Oh, we haven't seen you for ages! We've missed you so much! I do hope you're doing all right with Raoul, Maman and I are," she said, smiling.

"Things have—happened, Meg," Christine said carefully. "I'd like to talk to the both of you."

"Of course," Meg replied, and she good-naturedly laced her fingers through hers as the three of them headed to the drawing room.

They did not speak again until they had entered the room and Madame Giry had locked the door soundly.

"Please sit, my dear," Madame Giry said to Christine, gesturing to the tea set already waiting on the table.

She waited until all three of them had settled into their armchairs, with Meg next to Christine, and poured out tea for them all before continuing. "Well?"

Christine reached out and took her teacup, trying to still the faint tremor in her hands as she peered into its dark depths, wishing she could disappear into them with Erik and find a world filled with nothing but human kindness. The gentle squeeze of Meg's hand on her arm gave her the strength to break the silence that had settled over the room. "It's Erik," she said without preamble, continuing to look down at her tea.

She heard an intake of breath, from Meg perhaps, and looked up to see a grim expression stealing over Madame Giry's face. She nodded, her eyes set. "What happened?"

"He's—he's being held prisoner in Paris for his actions the night of the _Don Juan_ premiere and is—he's going to be executed!" The words burst from Christine in a flood of emotion. She quickly placed her teacup on the table with shaking hands, sure that she would drop it otherwise, and lowered her head into her hands, sharp tears burning her eyes as grisly images of Erik's broken corpse flashed before her eyes.

"Oh, no," Meg murmured sympathetically, flashing a worried look at her mother as she rubbing Christine's back soothingly.

"When did this happen?" Madame Giry asked after a tight pause in a fiercely controlled voice.

Christine peered through her blurred vision to see that Madame Giry had gone very pale. She sniffed hard and tried to think through the haze of frightening visions before her. "I heard about it around a week ago, maybe more. He was captured the night that the Opera Populaire burned to the ground. He must have been convicted of murder—all the things he'd done as the Phantom—because he's going to hang from the gallows only four days from now." She raised her teary face to meet Meg and Madame Giry's concerned ones. "All of Paris knew Ulbaldo Piangi, they want to see Erik hang for it. But he did all of those things because he loved me. He didn't know any better; he only knew that he wanted us to be together. Erik never killed out of cold blood, never!" Her passionate words rang through the room. Then she lowered her voice to a desolate whisper. "But the Parisian judicial system doesn't care about any of that. And now—and now—he's—he's going to die if I don't do something—"

Madame Giry smoothed her hair with a graceful hand, studying Christine closely. "Have you seen him since his arrest?"

Christine nodded. "A few times. I—" She broke off, visions of his lacerated back, his blood, the roar of the satiated crowd at his execution threatening to swamp her. A sting of pain stabbed deep into her breast, creeping up slowly towards her throat as she struggled to control her emotions. Meg gently leaned over and laid a hand on Christine's, and she immediately felt calmer.

"How is he coping with the fate that awaits him?" Madame Giry asked after a moment in a quiet voice.

Christine was silent for a moment before answering. Having known him under varying aliases since her childhood, she often accurate at reading his true moods, even if they were masked. "He still blames himself deeply for what he did that night, and is at war with his desire to be justly punished and his desire for freedom." She considered their last meeting. "He is numb, and cannot come to terms with his impending execution. The fact that it's so—soon—" Christine stopped and took a deep breath to calm herself, then continued. "—The fact that it's so soon caught him by surprise, I think. He has hope, but even that is rapidly being taken over by fear."

"Hope?" Madame Giry repeated, raising one of her eyebrows.

"Yes…" Christine paused again nervously, but decided to plunge ahead, since Madame Giry had already partially broached the topic she had come here to discuss. "I'm going to help him escape."

"Christine!" Meg turned her chair around to face her more fully. Her expression held both sympathy and concern. "Are you willing to put your reputation and your life on the line for him?"

Calmer now, Christine wiped the tears from her cheeks as she gathered her thoughts. "I am," she said softly. "I know I am mad, I know I am going against the law, but it is a corrupt and prejudiced system that I am fighting. They only understand Erik to be a deranged murderer. He's changed, but nobody wants to believe him, or give him the opportunity to prove it. They only want to see him dead. They don't see his genius, his potential, his—such beauty, if only they could give him the chance—"She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I would be only a shadow of a human being, if it weren't for his existence. He commanded that I _live_, not just exist. He showed me the beauty of music, of art, of being alive…he gave me everything. And now, it's my turn to return the favor." She looked at Madame Giry, who was still standing with an unreadable expression on her face, and Meg, whose grip was slackening on Christine's arm as she lost herself in thought. "But I cannot do it alone," Christine finished. Another breath, another release. "Will you help me?"

A silence fell and Christine held her breath as the tension built in the room. Meg looked down at her hands in her lap, lost in silence, as her mother studying Christine carefully, trailed the knuckle of her finger over her jaw.

"I have two things to say to you, Christine." Christine nodded for her to continue. "One, you are utterly _mad_ to be even considering such a venture. You are talking about challenging the entire political system of France herself." Madame Giry spoke with such forcefulness that Christine tucked her chin into her chest, feeling as if she were being chastised as a child once again. She was, however, unprepared for what she said next.

"Two," she said, sitting back down again in her chair across from Christine's, "I'm clearly mad as well, for I am going to help you."

Christine's head shot up, her dark eyes meeting the deep hazel ones of Madame Giry's. "You are?" she asked, her voice cracking with surprise and deep relief.

"Do not underestimate what Erik means to me, my dear," Madame Giry said gently. "I have known him for a very long time, and despite our differences in personality and opinion, he is and remains very important to me." Madame Giry turned to her daughter. "Meg?"

Meg remained silent for a long while, toying with her waist-length blonde hair. Then she said slowly, "I can't pretend to know Erik, or truly understand what he was to you, Christine. I only know scattered pieces from you, and anecdotes that Maman told me since I was young about his kind heart, how exquisite his music sounds, and how he prefers the night to the day…little things here and there. I suspect that even with a lifetime's study I can never gain a comprehensive understanding of him. But I do know that he was very important to you, and remains dearer to your heart than even you know. You are like a sister to me, and I trust you, I trust Maman. So I will help you. If he is truly as beautiful a person as you say, it would be a hideous crime for Paris to execute him."

Christine's heart was breaking with relief and newfound nerves as she thought about the task ahead of them. She would not be alone, she had never been alone in shouldering the burden that was Erik's fate. But something still bothered her.

"Are you sure about this, Meg? I need not ask Madame if she is resolved in the idea, but you have no reasons of your own to go rescuing Erik."

"Of course I am sure!" The words almost exploded from Meg's mouth. She collected herself as she took a sip of tea, then continued in a calmer voice. "I care about you, Christine, very much. It would appear that like the rest of the world, the judicial system does not understand and is not willing to understand Erik's story, nor his true motives. And least likely, entertain the notion that he is capable of greatness like both you and Maman have related to me. It seems that the only people who truly understand him, or are willing to, are sitting in this room." She looked at Christine earnestly. "Yes, I am very sure. I will help you."

Christine breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you both. I will never be able to repay you."

"No need," Madame Giry said briskly. "Do not think of it. I'm sure you would have done the same if it were Meg and I came to you for help. Now—" she stood up and walked to the carved desk nearby, drawing out a sheet of paper and a pen and returning to the two young women. "We must figure out exactly how to spring Erik from prison. I, for one, have a couple of ideas that may be highly useful…"

* * *

A whinnying neigh brought Christine back to the present. She roused herself, shaking her head slightly to clear it as Chaser pounded what was now a well-worn path back to the de Chagny estate. Light grey clouds that had earlier hovered innocently on the horizon were now darker and larger, exploring the skies lazily as thunder rumbled very faintly in the distance. Christine was only a mile away now, a mile away from Raoul and her new life of luxury, masks, practiced smiles and recently, of hushed secrets. Despite her trepidation of facing Raoul with a liar's face along with her mounting nervousness for the plan to spring Erik from prison, she leaned forward and urged Chaser forward, spurring her on to new speeds.

The small figure of an anxious-faced Raoul standing just outside the stables appeared soon after the silhouette of the estate came into view, growing larger and larger as Christine approached the stables.

"Christine!" Raoul called out in relief as soon as she was within hearing distance. "I was so worried about you, my dear! There is a monstrous storm coming, you could have been anywhere! You did not leave a note to me this time, darling."

"Oh—" Christine realized, pulling Chaser to a trot as horse and rider entered the stables. When Raoul was not at home, she had the habit of slipping him a written note in his study indicating where she was going. "I am so sorry, I was in a bit of a rush to leave today, it quite slipped my mind. I am sorry for causing you worry."

"It is quite all right. Visiting a friend again?" Raoul's easy smile had appeared once again as Christine dismounted, handing the reins to the stable boy. Christine nodded automatically in response; this had been the excuse she had been using when she visited Erik. Raoul took her hand as she came up next to him. "My, the Vicomtess de Chagny is truly a popular lady. You see, there are many of the aristocratic class who decide to look past your birth and appreciate you for what you really are—a caring, loving, and intelligent woman." He looked out from the stable doorway at the darkening sky. "You gave me quite a fright, my dear Christine. Pray never frighten me so again by disappearing on a day like this—one would have thought that Zeus himself had requested your help in unleashing a storm and that you had departed the estate to assist him in wreaking havoc upon the world!" Laughing, he swept her up in a tight embrace.

A sound or two of amusement escaped Christine, mostly for Raoul's benefit, but as his arms wrapped around her, she found herself mired once again in her own fears. For she was doing exactly what Raoul had jokingly described: she was confronting the law and planning to spring Erik from prison, all behind her husband's back. Erik had indeed changed, that much she was sure, but Erik was a born rebel, able to bring some kind of chaos in varying magnitude wherever he went. He had now transformed, but was perhaps even more unpredictable for it, and in one way or another, she would indeed be wreaking havoc upon the world by releasing him from behind bars.

She had already secured her wedding ring back on her finger during the ride home, and for a fleeting moment, as her eyes glanced downward over it, she could have sworn she felt a burning sensation where her skin met the gold band promising her life and her love to Raoul. She closed her eyes as the guilt washed over her, guilt for deceiving Raoul and plotting to release a man from prison that had once tried to kill him.

Outside, dark clouds continued to close over the sky, blocking out the sun and casting Paris into shadow.


End file.
